


Teacher's Pet

by Rehfan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal, Anal Sex, BAMF!John, Bathtub Sex, Blow Jobs, British Military, Come Shot, Discipline, Dom John, Dom/sub Play, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear of Discovery, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Frottage, Ice Play, Library Sex, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Military, Military Fetish, Military Uniforms, Minor Character Death, Murder, Mystery, Rejection, Rimming, Smut, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain John Watson decides to teach Anatomy and Physiology at Sherlock's uni.</p><p>Lucky for Sherlock.</p><p> </p><p>CHINESE TRANSLATION by ad50302742: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10042826/chapters/22379681<br/>OR here:<br/>http://www.mtslash.org/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=221932&page=1&extra=#pid4194683</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: I have been reliably informed that UK uni's don't operate like I've written this fic. Please forgive me. I'm an American writing this stuff and guessed at all of it.
> 
> ALSO: where I went to college, there was an actual campus. I've never gone to a uni inside the confines of a bustling city. BUT, I don't believe that I say outright that the uni in question is actually IN London proper... so.... suspend your disbelief, use your imaginations, and enjoy the story!
> 
>  
> 
> REFERENCE PHOTOS:
> 
> Photo of Dress Blues Uniform: http://webarchive.nationalarchives.gov.uk/+/http://www.army.mod.uk/images/images-microsites/RAC/RAC_KRH_Dress_no1_175.jpg
> 
> Photo of Operational Service Medal: http://www.army.mod.uk/images/land/medal_operational-service_1.jpg
> 
> Photo of Military Cross: http://www.army.mod.uk/images/central-panel/medals_MC_150.jpg

Captain John Watson (retired) sat on the park bench with a coffee warming his left hand. Mike Stamford, now Professor Stamford, sat to his left and talked about his life on campus in cheery tones. “It’s not a bad set-up, really. The pay could be better, of course, but then, who’s couldn’t?” he said with a chuckle.

“I bet it’s a damn site better than army pension pay,” said John, trying not to burn his tongue on the bitter liquid.

“Oh perhaps,” said Mike. He paused and looked at John. “Are you looking for a position?” he asked.

“Well, yes actually,” said John. “I could stand to have something to do all damn day.”

“Well, why don’t you come work for me?” said Mike. John gave him a curious look. “Come and teach an overflow class for me. Anatomy and Physiology. My old assistant got married and is now pregnant, expecting anytime soon. I’m a bit short-handed at the moment.”

“You want me to teach… at a university?” said John. “Am I even qualified?”

“Of course you are!” said Mike, chuckling. “You are a medical doctor. You were in the army as a medical man. You aren’t required to have any type of teaching degree, just the qualifications in your subject. Frankly, I can’t think of anyone more qualified than you, John.”

John took another sip of his coffee, buying himself time to answer. It didn’t seem like a bad idea. It was going to be steady work in a new atmosphere, get him out of his depressing bedsit, and give him something to look forward to every day. All in all, it was a win-win situation for both he and Mike. 

“Why not?” said John with a grin. An anatomy and physiology course would be a toddle. He could teach that in his sleep. “D’you mind taking me through the requirements of teaching such a course? I’m assuming there’s a syllabus that I’ll have to make—“

“No need, mate,” said Mike. “I’ve already made up the syllabus. You’ll be working under me. All that’s to be done is for me to speak to the dean of the department. I really don’t see how they could object. You’re a distinguished soldier, fresh back from the war. They’ll love you.”

“Great,” said John, “it’s settled then. When and where shall I meet you to discuss the particulars?”

“Officially, classes begin in three weeks, so it’ll be a bit of a crunch. But I think we’ll muddle through, don’t you?” said Mike, cheerily. He gave John an address, date, and time to meet him.

“Sure thing, mate. Cheers,” said John and he raised his cup to the man who just saved him from a lifetime of boredom.

 

~080~

 

John was teaching a twice-a-week course held in a lecture hall of the science building just off the main administrative building. He was shown to an office the size of a large cupboard that he could use for keeping office hours, something he would be required to do at least twice a week. He and Mike sat in his new office going over the student roster for this coming term.

There weren’t many students in the class compared to the main A&P course that Mike was teaching, but there were enough to make John a bit nervous about speaking in public. He was used to soldiering, where some CO would bark an order and the men would go hustling to do what was ordered. He wasn’t used to people questioning his orders – and that’s all that was going to happen in an open classroom. John literally did not know what to expect.

“The key to a good classroom atmosphere is discipline, John,” said Mike seriously. “You’ve learned plenty of that in the army, so this shouldn’t be difficult.” He looked over the paper in his hands. “Most are good students, I recognize some names from my biology course last term… Ah… here’s a name I’m glad I don’t see on my own roster: Sherlock Holmes.” Mike took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose as though he had suddenly developed a migraine.

“Oh no,” said John, watching Mike carefully, “What’s wrong with that one?”

“Well…,” began Mike, not too sure how to accurately describe the man in question, “he’s a bit… challenging. He won’t correct you until you’re wrong, however… so that’s something.”

“He’ll attempt to correct me?” asked John incredulously. “What do you mean? Is he a medical man?” John thought for a bit and then interjected with more than a little cynicism: “Oh… let me guess: his father is a doctor?”

John couldn’t wait to meet this Holmes character. He used to deal with smartasses in the army all the time. Over-privileged rich boys who thought the army would be a holiday every day because the royal princes were serving, so how hard a life could it be? Famous last words.

“Not as far as I know,” said Mike, “No… Sherlock’s got a keen mind. He’s incredibly intelligent. But socially… well… let’s just say that he’s lacking in the formal graces. He’s abrupt, but he’s never wrong. He’s just… a ‘special snowflake’, as my niece would say.”

“Fantastic,” said John, not really thrilled at all.

 

~080~

 

John had made the decision to do it shortly after he heard of the existence of the Rather Challenging Special Snowflake, Sherlock Holmes. He knew what he had to do right then and there. And hell… it would work for the other students as well. He knew that it impressed the hell out of him when he first joined up. He wanted to be like that: to be able to garner respect and gain control of a situation simply by walking into a room. And now that he was capable of it, he wanted to inspire that same respect and gain that control that he would need to see the term through.

It was a good decision. It was the only decision.

John prepared himself methodically the morning of the first day of classes, paying attention to every detail, noticing every flaw. He would stride into that classroom and they would all be forced to notice… even Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

 

~080~

 

First day of classes was always an awkward situation for any uni student. Sherlock was no different in sensing that nervous tension, except he was used to it. He always got strange looks everywhere he went on campus. After his first year, he was resigned to the fact that everyone around him was boring, boring, boring… and if they asked him why, he would lay out all he could about them in a rapid, machine-gun-fire manner that usually sent them running for the hills.

Needless to say, Sherlock Holmes didn’t have many friends. Or any at all, if he was honest.

Anatomy and Physiology: 101 – it would be a piece of cake. Sherlock had already absorbed all the anatomy books he could get his hands on during term break. He knew all the muscles backward and forward. The only thing left was to jump through the university administration’s hoops about taking prerequisite courses for reading forensic pathology.

He had decided long ago that he was better off around the dead than the living. People were too complex alive, too deceitful. The dead never lied to you. They couldn’t always give you the whole picture, but they could never lie about the facts that they did possess.

He took a seat at the front and to the side of the classroom. The lecture hall was like many on campus in the science building: descending tiers of tables with chairs pushed behind them and spaced out every two feet so that your elbow didn’t bump your neighbor should the class be full. The tile floor of the hall gave enough space for the lecturer to move about and still see everyone in the horseshoe arrangement. Whiteboards were against the rear wall with an assortment of colorful markers with which to write.

The doors to the lecture hall that the students came through were opposite the wall for the whiteboards and at the top of the cascade of rows of tables, but there was another set of doors at floor level and off to either side of the whiteboards. The faculty found those the easiest to use, but they were also handy to have in case of fire or emergency.

A large flat altar of a table was in front of the whiteboards, providing a space for the professor to organize their paperwork. It was a heavy soapstone surface with a sink built in. It was currently empty and Sherlock idly wondered about the TA that would be teaching this course in the professor’s stead and what that blank tabletop indicated about his or her level of preparation to teach this course. Sherlock supposed that he would have the lecturer crying by the end of the first hour. What a waste of time.

The classroom was slowly filling and those students who knew of him and his reputation were whispering to the others that didn’t. No one sat near him. No one dared.

Five minutes past the hour and Sherlock wondered if the class was even going to happen. In ten minutes time, they could all leave without repercussion from the university, fifteen minutes being the most amount of time that any class was required to wait for their teacher.

At fourteen minutes past the hour, the classroom had gotten a bit restless. One student spoke aloud to remind his fellow classmates about the fifteen minute rule. All eyes were on the clock.

With thirty seconds to go, one of the floor level doors opened.

Captain John Watson strode into the classroom and lay his attaché case on the table. He then stood in the middle of the floor at military attention and looked out over all thirty six of his students.

You could have heard a pin drop and John couldn’t have been more delighted.

 

~080~

 

Sherlock sat up straight in his chair when he saw the lecturer come in. He was impressive. He was formidable. He was wearing the full dress uniform of the RAMC.

Crimson hat, crimson trousers, blue jacket of an officer of rank, white belt, white gloves, shoes polished to a glossy shine: Captain John Watson stood motionless as his class took in his appearance. Sherlock smirked. This was going to be interesting.

He stood there as still as a statue, even after people started to murmur. He stood there until they fell silent again. The dark eyes of the soldier touched on every one of their faces; the only traceable movement was a small turn of his head as he made the effort to glance at them all. Once he seemed satisfied and the class was still silent, he made a perfect about-face and walked to the whiteboard where he wrote in clear letters:

‘Captain John Watson, MD (ret.)’

He turned back to face them in crisp, military fashion and without preamble or any further introduction, began to call roll. He started with last names first, barking them out, startling the first students with the misfortune to have a name that began with the letter ‘A’.

John glanced up when Sherlock acknowledged his own name. John was surprised that the lanky youth was so attractive: dark curly hair, almond-shaped ice blue eyes set in an angular face, a perfect cupid’s bow for a mouth; Sherlock Holmes was strikingly handsome. John felt Sherlock’s gaze bore into him, almost as if he were seeking a chink in John’s armor.

You won’t find any today, Mr. Holmes.

John continued his call until all students were accounted for. He then began his planned lecture, which was just a basic introduction as to the class subject and what was to be expected of them as his students. John also covered what he was expected to be as their lecturer and passed out his syllabus as well as a copy of his office hours. He expressed to them his desire to be available to any of them if they needed assistance and to feel free to call him ‘Captain Watson’, ‘Doctor Watson’, or ‘sir’ as they saw fit and felt comfortable.

By the conclusion of his short speech, the time for class had ended. John gave them a couple of chapters to read on descriptive orientation of the human anatomy and dismissed his class just as the second hand was reaching the top of the next hour. John stood at military ease in the middle of the floor as he watched them all leave. They were all whispering to one another and John gathered from their various tones and glances that they either thought him impressive as hell or a complete nutter. John suddenly realized that none of them spoke a word the entire time during the actual class and was pleased that he had created such a solid impression.

This was going to go very well, indeed. 

Sherlock filed out of the classroom last, risking a backward glance toward the still figure in uniform. John gave him a small nod of acknowledgement and Sherlock felt himself do the same as a reflex. Interesting.

This man was indeed intriguing. Thank God for that.

 

~080~

 

Sherlock stared at the ceiling of his rooms in the dormitory as he lay on the bed waiting for sleep to take him. It was useless, of course, but he made the attempt anyway. As he lay, he thought about Captain Watson. The man knew how to make an entrance. He also knew how to garner respect and get what could have been an unruly classroom under his control in an instant – and more impressively, without having to utter a syllable.

He pictured the figure he cut in that uniform: the crisp seams on his crimson trousers, the glint of gold on his buckle, the hat resting on the short-cropped blonde hair. He imagined how those white gloves would feel if he had shaken his hand and what kind of handshake he would have gotten. Surely it would have been firm, the soldier looking him straight in the eye, his lips set in a firm line.

Sherlock wondered at the medals that were on his breast. One he recognized was the Operational Service Medal, awarded to those who spent time in Afghanistan. The other he thought was a medal for extreme gallantry, the Military Cross. As a member of the RAMC, Sherlock deduced that Captain Watson had not only helped patch up injured soldiers in Afghanistan, but that he had actually done so under fire from the enemy on the front lines. So the man was brave in the face of almost certain death.

The more Sherlock dwelled on this man in his military perfection, the more he felt his cock twitch.

Unable to tolerate it much more, Sherlock reached a hand down to his throbbing member and palmed his growing erection through his pyjama pants. He usually did what he could to alleviate his body’s needs in the most perfunctory manner possible, but in this case he thought he might as well enjoy the fantasy.

He settled into his pillow, licked his palm, and stroked himself under his clothing. His own touch was startling as he focused on the image of Captain Watson hovering over his bed watching him masturbate with silent eyes. Good God… Sherlock’s cock filled and firmed instantly at the thought of that perfect uniform, the jaw of the officer set, as he stared him down… the white gloves forming a loose fist at his sides… the glint of moonlight off of the belt buckle… 

Oh dear God… how I want to strip that uniform off of you, Captain… Would you let me?... Would you touch me with those gloved hands?... Would you help me wank off?...

Sherlock felt his own precum spreading at his tip. He ran a thumb over the slit to spread it. Ah… the slickness of it was delicious. Sherlock kept up his rhythm, slowly building up the pace of it as his fantasy continued. Now Captain Watson was on all fours hovering over him in that uniform, not touching him, but studying his every movement, inspecting him. Sherlock hoped that the officer approved of what he saw. Which struck Sherlock as odd…he’d never wanted anyone’s approval before. But he wanted Captain Watson’s – so very badly.

Sherlock’s hips began to buck into his fist as the thoughts of Captain John Watson drifted over him. All that military perfection, so strict, so disciplined…What would he look like when he came? Sherlock could imagine the hard cock of the soldier entering him over and over and over, skin slapping against skin as the captain’s dog tags bounced against his chest above him… the thought was… hypnotizing.

Sherlock was losing his rhythm. What would kissing him be like: aggressive or deceptively sweet? What did the man taste like? He must taste so fucking good. He imagined the cool touch of the dog tags on his chest as John… oh yes, John….leaned down to kiss him, tonguing his mouth and licking at his lips, nibbling on the lower one just enough to drive him to madness…

Sherlock felt his balls tighten seconds before he came in thick ribbons of cum over his hand and abdomen. He nearly cried out John’s name, but caught himself. He would never hear the end of the taunting if anyone in any of the other rooms suspected that he wanked off occasionally.

He caught his breath, cleaned himself up, and felt drowsy immediately. That was the best orgasm he’d had in a long while. Thank you, Captain Watson, sir.

Sherlock smirked. A&P class was going to be amazing this term.


	2. Captain Watson Learns a Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, Captain Watson cares a bit too much about his prize pupil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Photo reference for fatigue uniform: http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/01546/camo2_1546793c.jpg

“Alright, mate?” asked Mike as he knocked on the open door to John’s office.

“Hello, Mike,” said John, “Yes… everything seems to be going well.”

“Good. Glad to hear it,” said Mike as he walked in and sat in the only chair opposite John’s tiny desk. The surface of the desk was covered in papers and John was correcting student’s quiz papers from the previous day. “Are they absorbing as they should?” Mike asked jovially.

“Yes,” said John and he let out a small huff of laughter, “in fact, I forgot to make an answer sheet for this quiz, so I just corrected Sherlock Holmes’s paper, found it to be perfect and am now using it to correct everyone else’s tests.”

“Ah, yes…,” said Mike, “I had forgotten you had Sherlock to contend with. How is he… um… treating you?”

“Fine,” said John, “just fine… only… Actually, Mike. Could I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” said Mike, “what is it?”

“I’ve gotten the feeling over the past couple of months that Sherlock has something of… well… He’s… been cooperative,” said John warily.

Mike blinked at John in surprise. “Pull the other one,” he said.

“No, no… really, Mike,” said John, a bit desperately, “I’m not joking with you. I don’t know what to make of it and… well, you told me that he was anti-social.”

“He is anti-social,” said Mike, taken aback, “Why, you can’t tell me that he’s actually participating in class, is he?”

“Yes,” said John. “He is… and since you told me what he’s like… I just haven’t seen any of that at all, really. I mean, every once in a while he'll grumble, but I think it's just because he's so damn intelligent. The slower students frustrate him.”

“My God. I didn’t think it was possible,” said Mike. “Captain John Watson, I do believe you have cracked the uncrackable nut.” He smiled and laughed. “Good on you, man! Good on you!”

John smiled with relief. “So you don’t think it’s anything to worry about, then?”

“Whatever do you mean?” said Mike.

“Oh, nothing. I suppose I’m just nervous about my skills as an instructor,” said John.

“Mate, you have Sherlock Holmes eating out of your hand! Consider yourself a goddamned success!” exclaimed Mike proudly. He rose and came around the desk to clap a congratulatory hand on John’s back.

As he made to leave, John stopped him. “Mike… There are rules about teacher-student relations, I assume?”

“Well yes, of course,” said Mike. “No teacher is permitted to get involved with a student. It would result with the teacher’s dismissal and the student’s expulsion.” He paused in the doorway giving John an impish glance and said, “Now Johnny boy, you’re not thinking of any of those pretty co-eds that are in your class, are you?”

John gave him a smile, but Mike missed the tinge of sadness that it held. “No, mate,” said John. “Just wondering what happens if they like me.”

“Ah,” said Mike, “the rule is the same. Except… don’t get caught!” And with a wink, he was gone.

John sighed thinking of crystalline blue eyes and black curls. He shook the thought away and bent his head over his work.

 

~080~

 

“That arrogant fuck!”

John’s head came up at the oath. Some students were coming down the path from his right. John was sitting in one of the benches having his lunch and enjoying the last brisk days of autumn while it was still halfway decent and not raining. He was hidden by a rather large shrubbery and the boys didn’t see him. Most likely because he was in his camo fatigues, his beret tucked into the epaulet on his shoulder. One of the boys behind the hedge continued his diatribe against some fellow student.

“Who does he think he is telling me that Susan was cheating on me?” said the voice. “Where does he get off?”

“I know, mate,” said a second voice. “He’s like that with everyone though.”

“Well he’s about to get what’s coming to him,” said the first voice.

“What the hell are you on about?” said a third voice. “He may be a son of a bitch, but he was right. Susan was cheating on you.”

“That doesn’t fucking matter!” said the first voice. “That cocksucker has to be taught a lesson that he can’t butt into people’s personal affairs. I’ll kill that nosy bastard.”

“Jesus, mate,” said the third voice. “And if you do punch Sherlock in the face –“

“For fucking starters!” said the first voice.

“Ok… punch him in the face – for starters – Do you think he’ll grass?” said the third voice. “I mean, if he does, you’re done for, mate.”

“Nah,” said the first voice, “He won’t tell anyone anything. Besides, who’s he going to tell? He hasn’t got a friend on this campus. Everyone hates his fucking guts.”

“Too right,” said the second voice,” who’s he gonna fucking tell?”

John stood up, put on his beret, and walked over to the other side of the shrubbery. He saw three students clustered together. Before they could react to his presence, John said, “What’s all this then, gentlemen? Plotting someone’s demise?”

It must have been his fatigues that lent an air of severity to his tone, because he did his best to keep his voice light and friendly. The three boys blanched. John stared at them until the one that was Voice Number Two cracked.

“No, sir,” he said, visibly shaking. “We was just talking, that’s all.”

“You mean you ‘were’ talking…,” corrected John.

“Yes, sir,” he said, “We were talking. That’s all. Just talking.”

“Glad to hear it,” said John, “because I believe I know this Sherlock of whom you’ve been speaking as he’s one of my students. And if I saw any harm come to one of my students, I guess I’d know what three men to speak to in regards to it, now wouldn’t I?” He eyed each of the boys in turn, memorizing their faces.

Their Adam’s apples all worked up and down as they stared at the captain. There was a pregnant pause and John said: “I believe that you gents have a class to be at? Or perhaps some studying to do? Am I correct?”

“Yes, sir,” they all mumbled.

“Well then,” said John, “off you pop.”

The three boys took off down the path, walking as quickly as they could. It was nice to know that he could still instill fear into the hearts of young men with a few stern words and a hard stare – and all while wearing a beret.

John sat back down on the bench and reflected on the boys’ conversation. Sherlock was an astute observer. He had spotted the notches in between ribs 6 and 7 that had killed their classroom skeleton’s previous occupant. He seemed excited at finding the evidence and made a bit of a show to John who threw an ‘amazing’ at him. And it was amazing. Sherlock was the single most observant man he had ever met.

It was no surprise to John that Sherlock had pointed out to Voice One that his girlfriend had been unfaithful. Personally, John didn’t understand why Voice One was so damned surprised. He supposed that it was a horrible invasion of privacy, but John guessed that Sherlock only told the boy in order to relate to him, to make friends with him.

Everyone wanted friends. Sherlock couldn’t be the only exception to the rule, could he? John decided to take a stroll down to the alumni office to see if he could find out anything more about Sherlock Holmes.

 

~080~

 

Jeanette in the alumni office had to be going on eighty-three if she was a day. She let him in to the records office with hardly any trouble. The uniform works in more than areas of authority, apparently. The glint in the secretary’s eye when he strolled in told him all he needed to know about how to ask for access to the files.

He went down the rows of filing cabinets in the back room and found Sherlock Holmes’s file. He moved to an empty table, settled himself and opened it.

Transcripts from his former schools were inside. This was Sherlock’s third uni in two years. That was a bit unusual, but perhaps the schools were a bad fit for one as highly intelligent as Sherlock.

John went further back to his personal history. Just the bare facts here, but his parents had an address in Surrey and another one in Mayfair. Well-to-do, then. John’s first estimation of Sherlock as a spoiled rich kid was spot on. His father’s and mother’s names didn’t ring any bells, however.

Disappointed, John placed the file back where he found it, thanked Jeanette with a kiss on the hand, and walked to the registrar’s office.

Donna was behind the desk, or so her placard said. “Donna?” inquired John in his softest voice as he took off his beret.

The redhead looked at him in his uniform and her eyes glazed over just slightly.

“Yes?” she said, “How can I help you… erm…” She glanced at his rank insignia and couldn’t make heads or tails.

“Captain,” he finished for her.

“Oh, of course,” she said, “Captain Watson.” She smiled coyly, pointing at his name on his uniform, and he gave her a shy grin in exchange. “What can I do for you?”

“Yes…um,” said John awkwardly, “What can you tell me about Sherlock Holmes? He’s a student here.”

“Oh?” she said. “Well… is he in some sort of… military trouble?”

“No… no,” he laughed, “Nothing like that. I’m teaching here and he’s one of my students. I’m just wondering about him as I get the impression he’s not a very popular boy and I was hoping to get the registrar offices’ impression of him as a student.”

“Oh,” said Donna, “well... that’s sort of... irregular.”

“Is it?” said John, “Forgive me, I’m a first-time instructor and I’m not quite certain of the rules.”

“Well, the registrar’s office is mainly for their schedules and signing up for classes. We keep track of grades, of course, but not for the current term. We only get those after you’ve submitted the mid-term grade results and term final results.”

“I see,” said John, “And can you tell me whether or not Sherlock has been a good student in his past classes?”

“I can look that up for you, yes,” said Donna. She went to a computer terminal and called up Sherlock’s records. John came around to look over her shoulder and Donna leaned back rather obviously and stared at John’s face. “See anything you like?”

Jesus… John had forgotten how much of an aphrodisiac his uniform could be for some women.

“Um…,” he said awkwardly, “Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary here. He looks to be a good student when it comes to chemistry and botany, but not so good when it comes to his prerequisite courses in literature and astronomy. Interesting.”

“Is it?” said Donna, dreamily.

“Yes,” said John. Clearing his throat, he stood up. “Thank you, Donna.” Wasting no time, he put on his beret and walked out of the office.

As the door closed behind him, he heard her say: “No, Captain. Thank you.” John rolled his eyes and smiled.

 

~080~

 

Late that night, all papers graded, John sat back into his bed and thought about that bright man in his class. Why did he care so damn much about Sherlock Holmes? Surely the man was capable of looking after himself? Why was John so interested? What had him so hooked?

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He instantly saw Sherlock. In their last class he wore a purple shirt with a dark suit. He was always dressed up like he was going to a business meeting. Why was that? It set him apart from the other students and John figured that that was exactly why Sherlock did it. He didn’t see himself as a part of their world.

More than once, John would set a task before the class that would involve memorization of the bones and bone parts and he thought he would hear Sherlock huff a sigh and mutter the word ‘bored’. But if he turned to Sherlock, the man would be the picture of concentration. John laughed at the ruse. It was childish, but Sherlock had a humongous childish streak in him. John sort of enjoyed it, if he was honest.

Sherlock should have been in a private class, an advanced private class. John could have taught him privately about the systems of the body. As it was, Sherlock had memorized the anatomy and physiology of the skeletal system perfectly, but had little appreciation for how the entire body worked as a whole. John didn’t believe that Sherlock considered it important.

It’s as though the man were capable of erasing all non-relevant material from his brain and only hanging onto those items of interest that he felt would serve him better later in life. More than once, John tried to convince Sherlock that knowledge of bone pathology is something he would need to know if he were to be a successful forensic pathologist. Jumping Jesus! The word ‘pathologist’ is in the damn job title! How could he be so obtuse?

Yes, private classes would be the answer for Sherlock. He would talk to Mike about it tomorrow after his class. He would ask Sherlock whether or not he would like that too. It wouldn’t do to go through all the trouble of arranging a private class when the student didn’t want to participate in it. And if it did happen like that, Sherlock would be just the bloke to surprise him and refuse.

The man could be such an annoying prick. But thank God, John was a patient man capable of thinking around corners. The military taught him that: think on your feet, wait for just the right moment.

John tried to picture teaching Sherlock privately. They’d have to get a small room somewhere on campus. Perhaps the library? There were private conference rooms on the third floor, some huge, some only meant for a handful of people. It would have to be there.

John would have access to a white board in that room and he could begin with a more advanced form of A&P that Sherlock could appreciate. He could also effectively demonstrate the function of each muscle group with Sherlock, perhaps teaching stretching techniques that would help him understand where the connection points for these muscles actually were.

There was one stretch that came instantly to John’s mind and John blushed at the recollection. He recalled an instructor in his original A&P class that brought in a massage therapist to assist him. She was a little bit of a thing, but strong! She had Harris Mahoney get on her table and she demonstrated a stretch for the ilio-psoas muscle located deep in the hip joint.

She had Harris place the front of his hips at the edge of her portable massage table and lay on his stomach on the table with his feet on the floor. She told him to relax his knees, letting the table take his weight. She then went behind Harris, between his legs, and lifted one of his legs off of the floor. She squatted down and placed his knee on her shoulder and she stood up, holding down his pelvis with the forearm on the opposite side. Harris grunted something awful with the stretch, but said later that he would never forget where his ilio-psoas was.

As a medical observer, the stretch made sense for the muscle group involved. It was effective and efficient as a passive stretch for the patient who was experiencing a shortness in that muscle grouping. 

As a male human being, however, that stretch just looked filthy.

John’s cock filled at the thought of doing something like that to Sherlock. And oh! What if they got caught? Dear God in heaven… 

John palmed his growing erection. This was so wrong… but… Jesus God, he wanted to kiss the hell out of that boy. Those perfect lips on his would feel so fucking good. Mother of God, is this why he gave a damn? Shit… who cared? All John could see was Sherlock bent over a table, his perfectly turned arse just waiting for him.

Oh, I’ll stretch you alright…you dirty boy.

John reached into his nightstand for some lube. He preferred it to saliva and once he had slicked himself up, he continued with his fantasy. There was something about the risk of getting caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar that got John hard in an instant. There was also something about Sherlock that made John want to do all kinds of nasty things to him.

John wondered how well Sherlock would take orders… If he came to Sherlock in his fatigues and ordered him to drop his trousers and pants to his ankles, how would that dapper fuck react? In his fantasy, Sherlock complied easily to his command.

Just lean over the table, Sherlock… That’s it, you filthy boy… You want this, don’t you? He heard Sherlock let out a whimper of assent as he massaged the man’s buttocks. He really did have such a nice arse. John licked a stripe up Sherlock’s crack and Sherlock jerked with shock and moaned his approval. John spread Sherlock’s cheeks and teased his tongue around the man’s opening. He felt Sherlock relax into the sensation and try to back his arse up onto his tongue, eager for deeper contact.

Easy now, Sherlock… You want it, I know… You’ll get it too… don’t you worry… Captain Watson always looks after his Sherlock… John plunged his tongue deep into Sherlock’s warmth and tongue-fucked the man’s arse until he heard Sherlock calling his name and begging for more. More Captain… please… dear God… please…

John shoved a lubed finger slowly into Sherlock and heard him hiss with pleasure at the pressure. He begged for a second, so John gave it to him… then a third… John was hitting Sherlock’s prostate with every stroke and he heard the student keen with the sensation. He pulled out and lined himself up… Please Captain… my Captain… take care of me…

No worries, Sherlock… Captain Watson always takes care of his Sherlock… just be a good soldier and take a deep breath… that’s it…. Now exhale… good boy… As Sherlock let out his breath, John pushed into him, the head of his dick popping past the sphincter muscles easily now that the man was so open and lubricated. The heat from him was delicious.

John pumped his pelvis harder, fucking his fist. This is what he wanted: to possess that arrogant bastard, to push himself deep into him until he cried out for mercy. Mine… mine… mine… John imagined the sound: wet sucking and the slap of skin on skin… he was on the verge of coming. So good… so fucking good, Sherlock… You’ve always wanted me to fuck you, haven’t you? Good boy, Sherlock… that’s it… beg me for it…beg me for it, you filthy boy…

John came over his hand and stomach with a cry, thick white splotches of cum streaming from his swollen dick. That’s it… oh God… so fucking good… damn.

He lay there in his own sticky mess catching his breath. Once the post-coital fog cleared he thought: what the hell was that? I just wanked off to the thought of having sex with one of my students. That was wrong. So fucking wrong. I don’t want to get sacked. I don’t want Sherlock to get in trouble. This stops here, or I have to ask for a transfer to teach a different class.

Or…

John cleaned himself up and curled up against his pillow in the fetal position. He would talk to Mike in the morning about getting Sherlock in a private class, alright. One that John himself would NOT be teaching.

This was getting too dangerous.


	3. Substitute Student

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The class model dummy has gone missing. How will Captain John Watson instruct class?
> 
> Could he get a volunteer?

“Where the hell is it?” exclaimed John. He came into Mike’s office like a mad hornet.

“Where the hell is what?” said Mike.

“The plastic torso model. The one that comes apart for musculature as well as internal organs. It’s missing from the supply closet,” said John, exasperated. If he didn’t get the model for his class today, his entire lecture would suffer.

“Oh dear,” said Mike. “It’s that time of year again, is it?”

“What do you mean ‘oh dear’?” said John. He was about to get angry.

“Well…,” said Mike, “sometimes the boys in the fraternities like to take it out and have a bit of fun. It’s against the rules, of course, but there’s no stopping them. Year after year it winds up missing and months later, just before the end of term, we find it – usually hanging in a tree top, or perched on the roof of the building with students gathered around the base telling him ‘don’t jump!’” Mike laughed. “It’s all a bit of a lark. But the downside is, you’ll never find it until they want you to. Consider it gone.”

“Well, damn it all to hell!” said John. “That was meant for my lecture today. What the hell am I going to do?”

“Sorry, mate,” said Mike. “You’ll have to think of something else.”

 

~080~

 

John was in the lecture hall attempting to draw up a picture of the human anatomy on the board. His artistic skills were gravely lacking and erasable marker wasn’t exactly the friendliest medium if you made a mistake or wished to add an embellishment after the liquid had evaporated and left behind only the colored powder. John had an unholy mess on his hands when he stood back and looked at his efforts. It was embarrassing.

What the hell was he going to do?

He capped the marker, erased the board, and looked at his hands. They were covered in colored powder and were practically black. John shook his head and looked at the clock. The class would be filing in at any moment. There was a bit of time for him to run down to the toilets and wash his hands, but he still had papers to hand back before the class actually began. He would need every second of class time today. Bugger.

He looked around and under the altar, checking the cabinets for something to wash his hands with. There was a sink built into the gigantic lump of a desk, but for some reason, the water was disconnected and there was no soap. Well that was just… inconvenient. Under the sink cabinet, however he found a container of baby wipes. Never mind why they were there; that would have to do.

They cleaned off his hands like a treat. Brilliant! John would have to remember that if he was ever in this situation again. He supposed the person who had discovered the non-working sink realized the same… perhaps the pregnant former professorial assistant? No matter; it worked. The washable marker came off like nothing at all. 

Wait a minute…wait a damn minute…

John took one of the markers and drew a line on his forearm. It showed up as clear as day. He applied a new wipe to the mark and it disappeared completely. That was it. That was the answer to his problem.

The class filed in and John grinned with new purpose.

“Alright,” said John. “Settle in.” He waited patiently for his class to become under control once he finished handing out their graded papers. He stood at military attention as usual in front of the class. It was only after he saw Sherlock in that crisp white shirt of his that he realized that what he was about to do was perhaps slightly inappropriate. He would just have to rely on whatever professional air he could exude during the next hour and pray that the students responded in kind.

Do not think about Sherlock… Do not think about what you’re about to do in front of Sherlock… This is a classroom. You are the instructor. Do not lose focus…

“Today class,” began John, “I’m going to do something a bit… unorthodox… but necessary for our lesson today. Today we learn of the musculature of the human torso, anterior muscles first, posterior muscles in the last half of class. You are simply to note origin and insertion points and their names. Function will come later and we will go more in depth in another class for that. For right now, it’s just the anatomy that I want you to grasp.

John performed an about-face as was his custom, and proceeded to strip to the waist. As layers of the fatigue uniform came off of him, he could hear the class murmuring. He folded each item neatly and placed it on the altar. His dog tags jangled as he stripped off his undershirt. He turned to face his class and explained, “Some clever folks made off with the model dummy we were meant to use for this portion of your lessons, therefore I have volunteered myself for the first portion of the lesson today.”

He went to the board, picked out the red and blue markers and returned to the front of the class. He proceeded to draw along his torso with the markers, tracing out the borders of each muscle, defining the origin and insertion points of the tendinous connections, and denoting the direction of the muscle fibers. The blue marker denoted muscle layers: pectoralis major was in red and to denote pectoralis minor, he drew over the red in the blue.

If the class wasn’t absorbing the material, they were absorbing John’s physique. He had lost a bit of muscle tone since his army days, but he wasn’t in bad shape at all. The scar on his shoulder was pronounced, but John barely noticed it anymore.

It was all John could do to not look in Sherlock’s direction. He was sure that the man was seeing much more than he bargained for today. He didn’t want to see the look in his eyes as John stood there half naked.

As the lesson proceeded, Sherlock found it more and more difficult to breathe, much less focus. He wasn’t expecting the scar. Injured in the line of duty, no doubt. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to lick that scar, to heal it with soft caresses… no… not here. 

Sherlock looked around surreptitiously to see if anyone saw him thinking what he was thinking. Hell, most of the class was thinking what he was thinking. Good. Then he wouldn’t stand out too much. Sherlock attempted to focus again on the lecture itself. He found that closing his eyes helped, but if anyone glanced at him doing this, it would appear as though Sherlock was enjoying the lecture a little too much. No, he had to look. This was fucking embarrassing.

Half the class time went by in what seemed to be seconds. And if the class enjoyed watching the first half, they really enjoyed watching Captain Watson wipe down his chest and torso with six different baby wipes. The scent of talcum powder fragrance drifted in the air.

“Now then,” said John, putting on his sleeveless undershirt, “who here can tell me the origin and insertion points for the trapezius?”

A hand was raised. “Yes?” said John.

Miss Sally Black stood up and said rather nervously, “Will you let us draw it on you?” As soon as the question was out of her mouth, she blushed as the class sniggered and she sat as quickly as she could. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Meretricious.

John did his best not to blush as well, but stood there at ease and regarded the girl. After a moment he said, “No I’m afraid that I’d need to be able to correct you and conduct class… so that’s out.”

“Oh, I’ll volunteer,” said a voice.

John was startled to see that the voice belonged to Sherlock Holmes.

Before John could argue Sherlock was out of his chair and down at the floor level. Removing his jacket, he placed it on the altar and began to unbutton his shirt. John walked swiftly to him as the class murmured its confusion.

“What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Holmes?” said John sternly in a lowered voice. This was not good. Definitely a bit not good.

“Assisting you,” said Sherlock simply, and continued to stare at John as he relieved the straining buttons from their appointed duties, revealing his creamy white skin underneath. John couldn’t look away. He even felt his mouth begin to water.

“Are you serious?” said John after a moment’s recovery. John looked into Sherlock’s eyes with what he hoped would be disapproval, but what he knew in his heart was more akin to shock and awe.

“Of course, doctor,” said Sherlock in a low cool voice which surprised even him, “I only wish to assist you with this class. You said yourself that the model was stolen – it is every year, you know. Most likely this year taken by the rugby club and hidden in the house attic space. You’ll find it there, I’m sure. But for the purposes of today’s lesson, you need a volunteer. I shall be that volunteer.” And he turned to John, naked from the waist up. “Whether you like it or not, you need me.”

In more fucking ways than one… Jesus, Mary and Joseph…

“Right,” said John. He turned back to the class and attempted damage control. “It seems Mr. Holmes has very graciously volunteered his back to be drawn upon. Any objections?”

The class fell silent. John took a deep breath and took up the blue and red markers once again. Sherlock took his place in the middle of the room, facing away from the class and assumed anatomical position with his arms to his sides and the palms facing forward. John noticed that even though he was thin, he had fantastic muscle tone. He could have been a lightweight boxer.

After a moment’s hesitation, John began instructing the class about the location of the trapezius muscles in the upper back. As John lectured the class, he traced out the connection points leading from the back of his head all the way down his spine to his T-12 vertebra, Sherlock felt the cool tip of the marker tickle smoothly down his skin. Instantly, gooseflesh broke out all along his arms and the back of his neck.

John made a small mark at T-12 leading outward away from the spine and Sherlock jumped a bit at the sensation. His breath caught. John cleared his throat and tried to focus. He continued the lecture which was about the only thing preventing him from losing his composure completely.

John traced the marker upward to T-6 and headed the marker’s point out toward Sherlock’s shoulder. To denote the connection point on the distal portion of his clavicle, John had to come around to face Sherlock a bit. When he did, Sherlock looked at John with heavy eyelids. All John could see of his eyes were two slices of ice blue. Sherlock’s face was flushed, his lips redder. Clearly he was becoming aroused. If John had put his fingers to Sherlock’s carotid pulse, he was sure he would feel an increase in his heart rate. As it was, John knew he would have to touch Sherlock to steady him and his hand in order to draw on him further.

Dear God in heaven, please don’t let me get an erection in front of my class…

John cleared his throat once more, focused intently on Sherlock’s collarbone, and marked the connection point. He and Sherlock exchanged a fleeting glance before John traced the muscle back up Sherlock’s neck to the base of the skull.

OK then… Toughest one done… I won’t have to look at his face for the rest. That’ll be better… I hope.

John moved methodically through the remaining muscles, denoting origin and insertion and drawing on Sherlock’s back as though it were the anatomical model he was supposed to have instead of this living, breathing, heartbreakingly beautiful creature. He did his best to ignore the heat that greeted his fingertips as he lightly touched Sherlock’s skin as he worked.

Mercifully, as John covered the last muscle, the class time allotted had run its course. He dismissed the class with another assignment regarding the muscles they covered today and bid them a good weekend. John then capped the markers and moved back to the rest of his neatly folded clothing at the altar. John attempted to go to the altar in order to get dressed quickly into the remainder of his camo uniform and gather his things. But he was unsuccessful. He noticed Sherlock’s clothing was still sitting on the soapstone surface. He looked back to see Sherlock standing there, chest bare, eyes glittering with amusement.

“I was wondering whether or not you had remembered me,” Sherlock said.

“I’m sorry?” said John, “Class is over. You can go, Sherlock. You didn’t need me to dismiss you individually, did you?”

“I believe you’ve forgotten something, Captain,” said Sherlock and he crossed his arms and waited.

“What?... Oh!” said John, “The marker! Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. It’ll wash off. Just grab a shower when you get back to your dormitory.”

“And walk across the campus half naked? In the dead of winter?” said Sherlock. “Not bloody likely.”

“What the hell are you on about, Mr. Holmes?” said John, a bit put out at this whole line of conversation. Why was Sherlock being such a child? “Put your damn clothes on and go home.”

“No,” said Sherlock.

“What? Why?” said John. He was about to get angry for the second time today. This was not shaping up to be the best of days for John Watson.

“Because,” said Sherlock with an exasperated sigh, “if you had observed, Captain, you would have noticed that my shirt is silk. Do you have any idea the damage eraser board marker would do to silk? I’m assuming that you’ve never owned a silk shirt before in your life, so I’ll make it easy for you: Do you have a spare £200 laying about somewhere?”

John just stood there. It took him a moment to process what Sherlock Holmes was asking. Oh God … the man wanted John to wipe his back down. John just had to use six of those for himself and he didn’t really get all of it off, there were still hints of the colors on his skin that he planned on washing off when he got back to his rooms. Sherlock had such a long torso…

John took a breath, squared his shoulders and took up a wipe. He approached Sherlock and began wiping off the color at his shoulder where he had marked out the trapezius. Sherlock watched him the entire time, taking in the man’s build, the sway of the dog tags against his chest with every stroke, and the ripple in his arm muscles as the good soldier scrubbed away the evidence of the lesson.

Sherlock took extra note of the man’s scar on his left shoulder. It was all Sherlock could do not to kiss that patch of skin. Fortunately, John’s task necessitated him passing out of Sherlock’s direct line of sight and behind him.

Sherlock closed his eyes with the sensation of cool wetness that passed over his skin and the warm hand administering the bath. His hand was as firm as Sherlock could have ever hoped. Sherlock wished the bath would never end.

For his part, John did his best to focus on the job at hand, reminding him of all the sponge baths he had to administer when in the army. There weren’t always facilities clean enough, or staff plentiful enough, so he lent a hand when he could. The biggest difference was that this was not the back of a wounded soldier. This skin was milky and perfect with freckles and small moles that peeked out from beneath the markings as he washed away the colors covering them up.

His hand ran over the length of Sherlock’s back slowly. John tried to fool himself into thinking that it was because he wanted to be sure to get all the marker off, but if he was honest, he really wanted to never stop caressing this amazing creature. For all his arrogant bluster, Sherlock Holmes was imminently fuckable. John wanted to bend him over the desks behind them and just rut into him until he begged to be fucked.

John shook the thought from his head as Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him.

“What?” said John, “Almost done. Be patient.”

“I am being patient, Captain,” said Sherlock. “It’s just that you stopped for more than a few seconds and I didn’t know what was wrong.”

John cleared his throat and Sherlock saw that as a tell of nervousness. It was the third time it had happened in the past hour. Why was John nervous? Because Sherlock caught him stilled by his own thoughts? Or was he nervous because of the thoughts that stilled him?

Interesting…

“Nothing’s wrong,” said John. I just need another wipe. Can’t have your precious clothes soiled by the likes of a lowly ex-soldier.” He moved to the altar for another wipe but decided it would be easier to just take the container with him to Sherlock.

“You are not lowly,” said Sherlock, with great perturbation, “You deserve respect, considering what you’ve been through. I would never put you beneath me in that way.”

John was genuinely touched by this. “Thank you, Sherlock… erm… May I call you Sherlock?” John could have kicked himself for being so familiar with his student.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and said, “Of course you may, Captain. May I call you John, or is that too familiar?”

“I suppose it would be alright in private,” said John. “But in the classroom and on the campus, I must insist you call me Captain Watson, Doctor Watson, or sir.”

“I understand completely,” said Sherlock, oddly excited at receiving a direct order from the man.

John continued to wipe down Sherlock’s back, gently but firmly, getting all traces of red and blue dye off of the lithe-muscled skin. Sherlock closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation, knowing that it couldn’t last much longer. Why couldn’t he just turn around, drop to his knees and suck John off? Sherlock wouldn’t say anything to get him sacked. He wanted to do it. He wanted the Captain to tell him exactly how he liked to be fellated. He could take orders from John. 

When he was finished, John stood back and gave Sherlock one last once-over with his eye. “I think that’s all of it,” said John. Fuck me, that boy is so perfect.

“Excellent,” said Sherlock and he walked to the altar and put on his clothes, trying to hide his partial erection and disguise his shaking... Christ, what is wrong with me?

John watched him in silence with a feeling of regret clawing at his heart. Jesus God, he wanted that man so damn badly… 

Once he had recovered himself and was dressed properly Sherlock turned to John, nodded his goodbyes and walked out of the classroom. John stood there and heard the door slam shut behind and above him.

Oh, this whole thing was a bit not good.

 

~080~

 

“You are investigating me.”

It wasn’t a question. John looked up from his desk to the doorway where a dark figure stood, his eyes like crystal blue fire. “Sherlock?” said John.

“Why did you go to not only the alumni office but also the registrar’s office to check my files?” asked Sherlock in a voice devoid of emotion. With no passion behind it for good or ill, the question flatly asked sounded unintentionally menacing.

“How did you-- ?” began John, but then he thought better of it and said: “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I was… concerned about you.”

“Concerned?” said Sherlock, still unmoved from the doorway. “Concerned about me? Whatever for?”

“Because… I overheard a few boys talking about you and how you managed to anger them. They intended to do you harm and I put them off the idea. But then, I got to thinking about you and…,“ said John.

“And?” said Sherlock.

“And… well… I have to say that… I suppose I just wanted to know who you are,” finished John pathetically.

“You want to know what about me?” said Sherlock. “That my mother and father are well-to-do? That I’ve been to three universities in two years?” He finally strode into John’s office and stood over him. “Or perhaps you want more intimate details? Like the fact that I sometimes don’t sleep or eat for days? That I play the violin? Or that I happen to be homosexual?”

“Now, Sherlock,” said John, not missing the last fact provided, but choosing to ignore its inclusion, “I didn’t mean to pry in that personal a way… Wait. What do you mean that you sometimes don’t sleep or eat for days?”

“Just as I said,” said Sherlock with a shrug, “But that’s not the point. The point is, you were snooping and I want to know why.”

“Because…,” said John, “I happen to give a damn about you.”

Sherlock looked as if John had struck him across the face. “You care? About me?... Why?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” said John. “You are remarkable, you know. That thing with the skeleton and the manner of death… That was… amazing.”

“It was?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes,” said John with a grin, “simply amazing.”

“That’s not what most people tell me when I make deductions,” said Sherlock.

“What do they say?” asked John.

“Piss off,” said Sherlock.

John looked at him in surprise and suddenly burst out laughing. In spite of himself, Sherlock laughed too. He sat in the chair opposite John and he inquired as to what boys were threatening him. John described Voices One Two and Three to Sherlock and he recognized them easily. He regaled John with the story of the cheating girlfriend and John was blown away by Sherlock’s astute observations and deductions.

“You’ll make a hell of a pathologist someday, Sherlock,” said John.

“You think so?” asked Sherlock.

“Or an even better private investigator,” said John and he grinned at the man. There was a pause in the conversation. After a while, John shuffled the papers in front of him. Sherlock got the hint and rose to his feet.

“Well, doctor,” said Sherlock, “it seems that it was a bit upsetting for me to discover that you had been snooping. Please do me the courtesy next time to allow me to answer personally any questions you may have about me.”

“Of course, Sherlock,” said John graciously as he stood at military ease behind his desk. “I apologize. Anything I need to ask you, I’ll just ask you.” John stuck out his hand. Sherlock shook it. It was firm and warm and everything Sherlock thought it would be. John thrilled at Sherlock’s touch and thanked all the gods above that there was a desk between the two of them, because otherwise… well… John might have done things to Sherlock that the laws of the university definitely discourage.

As it was, their handshake lingered for a few more seconds than was entirely necessary. Both men noticed this and chose to ignore it. Without thinking, John moved from behind his desk in order to escort Sherlock to the door. Once there, Sherlock turned to John, staring down at him and taking up all of his personal space in an instant. John’s breath caught in his throat.

Jesus… please kiss me. Please, Sherlock…

Sherlock said, “Captain.” His voice was like milk chocolate and John felt his knees almost give.

“What is it, Sherlock,” said John. He felt dizzy. Was this normal?

“Thank you,” said Sherlock. “I will be available to you at any time should you need to ask me anything… day or night.” Sherlock took a moment to gaze into John’s eyes. My God… they are actually a deep cobalt blue. God damn, they’re beautiful.

“You’re welcome,” said John, chancing a flicked glance down to Sherlock’s mouth and back again to those amazing eyes that aren’t really blue… more of a multi-colored spectrum… fucking hell. “And believe me… I will call upon you… should I need you to come… to my office.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself. He kissed John’s mouth briefly. It was a chaste kiss and fleeting. They both knew it was wrong, but liquid fire spread to both of their groins at the touch. It was sheer fucking heaven. John had just enough of the experience to register the pressure of Sherlock’s lips, the rough stubble, and the subtle taste of tea and tobacco… Lord… help me.

By the time the kiss broke and John opened his eyes, Sherlock was gone. John looked down the corridor attempting to catch a glimpse of his retreating figure, but he must not have gone to the right. He looked to the left --- and right into the eyes of Mike Stamford.

Oh, my dear Lord… definitely a bit not good.

 

~080~

 

Mike didn’t really see anything, but he had given John a curious glance and a nod as he passed his doorway. John returned his nod with one of his own and a wan smile. 

As John reflected on this encounter and the fact that he almost got caught kissing the incredibly tempting Sherlock Holmes, he sat at his desk and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Jesus fuck that kiss was hot. It wasn’t much, but just enough to whet his sexual appetite for more. John looked down at his partial erection and glanced at the door. What the hell?

John locked his office door, checking the hall to see no one else was coming. His office hours were over anyway and he’d be expected to lock up and leave. Mike wouldn’t come looking for him at any rate.

He sat back at his chair and unzipped his trousers. He pictured a tall lithe man in a perfectly tailored suit looming above him on the other side of his desk. John pushed back in his chair until he backed himself against the wall. In his mind’s eye, Sherlock was watching him masturbate in his camouflage uniform. Sherlock placed his hands against the desk and leaned forward eager to participate.

No you don’t, you filthy boy. You stay right where I tell you to. And at attention, if you please…

Sherlock had a slightly shocked look on his face and then gave him a sideways grin. He stood at full military attention, never taking his eyes off of the soldier and his hardening cock. You want this, do you? You want to know what it tastes like? Is that right, you dirty beggar?

John looked down at his now fully erect dick and smeared the precum along the slit with his thumb, using it as a convenient lubricant. Oh that was much better. He swiped a bit of it onto his third finger of his opposite hand, looked at the fantasy Sherlock and placed the finger in his mouth.

Mmmm… I really do taste so good, Sherlock… You want some, you slut?

Sherlock whimpered with need. John could see a rather prominent bulge developing in Sherlock’s trousers. John smiled at this.

Did I do that to you? Oh… you poor boy.

Sherlock moved his hand to touch himself and John gave him a glare of warning.

You are to do as you are ordered, soldier: nothing more, nothing less… Now… come over here.

Sherlock moved over to stand on John’s right hand side. John was masturbating with his left and reached up in his mind’s eye to palm at Sherlock’s erection with his free hand. Jesus… he was so fucking hard… and long… God damn.

Is that what you needed, Sherlock? Tell me what you need.

‘I need’… ‘I need to suck you off, Captain… sir…’

Do you? Well… if that’s what you need… 

‘Will you take care of me, sir?’

A good captain always looks out for his soldier… Come and kneel in front of me… But don’t touch.. not yet.

Sherlock did as commanded. He was a good soldier. Always followed orders.

Good boy… filthy boy… you want to wrap that mouth around my cock, do you? Sherlock nodded, his eyes pathetic and hopeful. John held the tip of his cock out toward Sherlock. Well then… you slut… suck on that…

The imagined feel of Sherlock’s warm mouth over his head caused John to increase his stroke. He thrust his hips into his fist, imagining it to be Sherlock’s perfect Cupid’s bow. You can take me deep, can’t you, Sherlock?... That’s it, boy… mouth fuck your captain… you know what you should do to make your superior officer happy… fuck!

That’s it, you dirty boy… Suck me hard… Goddammit!…. John carded his free hand through those curls, not pushing, but guiding Sherlock’s stroke… faster and faster… He could feel Sherlock’s wet hot tongue against the length of his cock, the pressure of his mouth’s suction… Son of a… He could feel his cock throbbing with the need to explode in the boy’s mouth… shit… so fucking good!

John grabbed some tissues from his desk to catch his ejaculate as ropes of cum came forth. He fairly cried out Sherlock’s name with the wave of his orgasm.

John laid back in his chair panting, cock hanging out of his camouflage trousers, dog tags shining with every heave of his chest.

Sherlock Holmes… you will be the death of me.

 

~080~

 

Sherlock needed a shower. A cold fucking shower.

He raced across campus and back to his rooms, gathered his things for a bath and found a shower stall that was toward the back of the lavatory. No one else was there and the dormitory was empty on an early Friday evening. Most of the students were already out partying.

The taps ran cold at first and Sherlock felt a bit alleviated. He felt like he was on fire there for a moment. He couldn’t believe that he had kissed Captain John Watson. And he couldn’t believe that Captain John Watson let it happen. When Sherlock broke the kiss, he saw that the man’s eyes were still closed, as if he didn’t want it to end.

Fucking hell…

Sherlock let the water run over his head and he bowed it under the stream, looking down toward his erection. Damn… This was getting to be a nuisance. He turned the tap as hot as he could stand it and gave in to his fantasies for the second time this term.

Before he began, he smoothed his hair back under the tap and let the water hit his chest, the heat from the water reddening his chest. He felt the hot stream tickle down his body and along his erection. He stepped back and watched his hardened cock as the water beat directly on it.

‘What are you doing, Mr. Holmes?’

Sherlock imagined Captain John Watson standing behind him, shower door open, in his dress blues. John simply watched Sherlock with those dark blue eyes. You like to watch, do you, Captain?

Sherlock took some soap in his hand and began to stroke himself with the fantasy. Here… you like this? Sherlock cupped his balls with one hand and stroked himself straight toward where the captain stood at attention. John watched his prick with stoicism, never letting an emotion pass his face.

The fantasy shifted. John was in his camouflage trousers and his green undershirt, dog tags about his neck, arms bare. Sherlock could see the scar on his skin and asked the captain if he could touch it. Slowly Captain Watson shook his head in the negative, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s cock.

Please, Captain… please let me touch you… Please touch me… 

Sherlock fairly whimpered with want. John stepped into the shower, just inside, his boots sloshing what little water was pooled there.

Yes… please, Captain… Come over here and touch me…

‘Who do you think you are, ordering me around? I’m your superior officer, dammit.’

Yes… yes you are… apologies, Captain… Tell me what I should do…

John was naked as he stepped forward, the light catching the omnipresent dog tags. ‘You’re to let me do that, soldier. Now…’ here Captain Watson’s voice became menacing, ‘hands… off…’

Sherlock thrust into his fist, pretending that it was John’s warm rough hand that held his throbbing cock. Rivulets of water streamed down John’s chest, along his abdomen, and across his thick erect member. Oh dear God… please let me touch you, Captain. I want… I want… Oh yes…

Captain Watson watched Sherlock’s face with interest as he stroked him toward orgasm. He looked down at his own dick and then nodded his assent. ‘You have my permission,’ he said.

Order me… please…

The captain grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder with his right hand as he continued to stroke him with his left and pulled Sherlock down to growl in his ear: ‘I order you to take my cock in your hand, soldier… and stroke me. Obey my command, boy… Get me to come for you… Do it.’

Sherlock leaned against the tile and stroked himself with wild abandon at this. Jesus… yes sir, captain, sir… He imagined grasping that thick cock and stroking John… my John… my captain… to ecstasy.

Sherlock came in seconds, his vision blurring and his knees getting weak. Cum coated his hand and he watched as the water washed it all down the drain. Got to be clean for inspection, yes I do.

Sherlock leaned against the tile, propping himself up with his hands and let the water run down his back as he panted.

Dear God, Captain John Watson… the things you do to me.


	4. Warning Signs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike gives John a warning that he may be getting too close to Sherlock.

“Knock, knock…” said Mike cheerily.

John picked up his head from his lesson plan and waved Mike into his office. Mike came in and shut the door behind him. Mike never shut the door. What was this?

“What’s up?” said John.

“Need to talk to you, mate… Hello… What’s this?” said Mike, staring into the empty eyes of the class model dummy that had gone missing. “Where did you find that?”

“Rugby house attic,” said John.

“But… how did you know it was there?” said Mike, clearly gobsmacked.

“Sherlock Holmes,” said John. If his voice carried a note of pride, Mike didn’t notice.

“The hell you say,” said Mike astounded. “The little thief took it and hid it to frame the rugby boys? Why the hell would anyone do anything like that?”

“What?” said John, “No… no that’s not it at all. Sherlock told me where it would be and it was there.”

“Because he put it there!” said Mike. John had forgotten that in his youth, Mike used to play rugby and had a soft spot in his heart for the team.

“No, you daft git,” said John, exasperated. “He didn’t put it there. When I went into the house and found it, the boys confessed to taking it. They even confessed to the activities that led up to the state I found it in.”

“You’re joking,” said Mike, sitting in the chair opposite.

“No lies, mate,” said John. “Found it in the attic wearing a blonde wig and lipstick. When I opened it up to see if all the organs were there, they were all there, but coated it what appeared to be gelatin and what I hoped was custard. I had a hell of a time cleaning everything off.” Mike just stared at him, too shocked to speak. John went on, “And now that it’s here it’s staying here under lock and key.

“And Sherlock?” said Mike, “How did he know it was there?”

“Oh who knows,” said John, “I’m sure he’d explain it all if you asked him. He is rather brilliant, you know.” John grinned to himself at this.

“That reminds me,” said Mike, “That’s why I’m here. Donna spotted me earlier today and asked me about the handsome soldier that I had working for me.”

“What did she want?” said John.

“Your number. But that’s neither here nor there,” said Mike, “I was curious to know how you made the acquaintance of Donna in the first place.” He held up a hand as John opened his mouth to explain, “Don’t bother, mate. She filled me in on your jaunt down to the registrar’s office and what you wanted to know.”

John sat and waited. He had done something wrong, that’s certain, but was it wrong enough to get sacked? Mike continued, “There are proper channels to go through to get information about certain students. And you can’t do a blind search either. You have to be looking for something relevant and important and you must get approval for it through your department head, in your case – me.”

“Donna didn’t explain all of that to me,” said John, “Had she done—“

“Well, Donna wouldn’t have. She’s an incorrigible flirt. She’s the one every year at the faculty Christmas party who thinks it’s the height of hilarity to wear mistletoe in her hair. At any rate, it doesn’t matter now,” said Mike, “The point is—“

“The point is,” finished John, “don’t do it again. Got it.”

“And another thing,” said Mike, “Sherlock left your office Friday of last week. What was that about?”

“Just… telling me where to find the model,” said John as innocently as possible and trying not to blush at the memory of the parting kiss Sherlock had given him.

“I see,” said Mike, “well… you’d better keep away from Sherlock. Bad enough that Donna’s comments were within earshot of other professors and instructors when she spoke to me. They might think something is up between you two. Say… is he being kind to you to angle for better marks or something?”

“Definitely not,” said John firmly. He didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “Sherlock is head of the class. If anything, he may need a more challenging class than I can provide. I had been meaning to speak with you about getting him a private class for A&P. Something that would peak his interest and challenge him a bit more.”

“With yourself as instructor, I suppose,” said Mike with a trace of distain.

“Actually… no…” said John slowly as though he were speaking to someone slow-witted, “I was thinking of you teaching him – or someone more qualified than me, at any rate.”

“For the last time,” said Mike, frustrated, “you are qualified! And no, it wouldn’t be possible anyway. Everyone’s got a full course-load and can’t be arsed. You may have some luck instructing him yourself, but as I said: any further contact with the Holmes boy may result in your being sacked for suspicious behavior.”

“I see,” said John. “Well… we’ll just have to muddle through then.”

Mike rose and went to the door. He stood there for a moment before leaving and said, “Tread lightly, Captain Watson.”

 

~080~

 

That day’s classes went smoothly enough and having the dummy back helped immensely. John was only a bit perturbed that all the innards of the thing smelled vaguely of raspberry gelatin. As for Sherlock, John took Mike’s advice to heart and barely glanced at the man all class long. When he did chance to look upon him, he noticed that Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed in concentration and aimed directly at John. John guessed that Sherlock was ‘deducing’ him, trying to find that chink in John’s armor. And knowing Sherlock, he probably found out a dozen things about John that would amaze and impress him were these ordinary circumstances. But just now, the stakes were too high.

John knew that if he allowed Sherlock any closer to him that lines would be crossed in seconds. His resolve was wearing down around that man. The suits, the glare, the impossibly slim waist, the musculature underneath all the silk shirts… Sherlock Holmes was sex on legs to John Watson. If he gave in – even for a moment’s glance – he knew he’d break and both he and Sherlock would pay dearly: John with his job, Sherlock with his future.

It was too great a price – especially for Sherlock.

 

~080~

 

John kept his office door open, even thought the corridor was freezing. A small electric fire was all that was warming him when a knock came to the door. John looked up too late to see that Sherlock Holmes had seated himself in the chair opposite.

“Oh no,” said John, “Unless you’ve class business to discuss, I really need to ask you to leave, Sherlock.”

“I do have class business to discuss, Captain Watson,” said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh?” said John, relieved, “What is it? The lesson today wasn’t too difficult for you?”

“God no,” said Sherlock, “Elementary. No, Captain. I am here to discuss your behavior in class today. I didn’t understand it.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about, Sherlock?” said John. This was going to be about the kiss. John saw it coming a mile off. He steeled himself for the conversation and prepared himself mentally to kick Sherlock out at the first sign of stroppiness.

“You avoided eye contact with me all class long. Why?” said Sherlock.

“Because it was in your best interest,” said John honestly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow again. “You still care?”

“Of course I care, Sherlock,” said John, “You’re my student. Why wouldn’t I care?”

“Because you’re sexually attracted to me,” said Sherlock, “Which is very pedestrian of you, by the way.”

John sighed. Here we go. “Get out, Sherlock,” said John. He rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“No, Captain,” said Sherlock. “I still don’t understand—“

“Well you’re going to have to learn to live with the disappointment, Sherlock,” said John, “Now… out.” John got up and came around the desk, taking Sherlock by the elbow and ushering him up toward the door.

“But you are attracted,” asked Sherlock pathetically, “aren’t you?”

John looked him in the eyes…Christ… those eyes… and said, “Despite my efforts to the contrary, I cannot deny that I find you… attractive.”

“And you care about me… about my welfare… Oh… OH! You’re kicking me out now because you’re afraid that the faculty will think we’re shagging and expel me! You don’t give a damn about yourself! You’re doing this for my benefit… I see!” Suddenly, Sherlock looked John in the face, his epiphany coming to its ultimate conclusion: “You really do care about… me. All of me. Physically and emotionally. Captain Watson… do you love me?”

John stared at Sherlock for some seconds in silence; it was a silence so profound that the sound of a pencil dropping from a desk three buildings away might have been heard. John could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He noticed the fall and rise of Sherlock’s chest with his breath. He watched his mouth as it formed the words of his name. He couldn’t speak. He could only stare at Sherlock’s impossibly beautiful lips as they came closer to him as they did once before…

Sherlock acted on impulse again and kissed John, pushing him up against the built in bookshelves that lined the wall opposite the doorway. Sherlock took John’s wrists in his hands and pinned them above the soldier’s head as his tongue licked John’s lips for access to his mouth. Permission granted.

John tilted his head and absorbed Sherlock’s kiss, tasting him thoroughly as his tongue brushed and flicked against his own. Son of a… This can’t be happening… It really can’t… It’s wrong… So fucking wrong… Jesus… you taste so good, Sherlock…

Sherlock kissed John languidly, enjoying every moment the doctor was willing to give him in this activity. He wanted John to feel how badly Sherlock wanted him, how much he desired this amazing soldier to become his own…

Sherlock ended the kiss by breaking away and licking across John’s puckered mouth. He still had John’s hands trapped above his head. John looked sex dazed and Sherlock loved that he could do that to this disciplined military man. It didn’t last long, however. John looked up at his hands and back at Sherlock. He said, “Sherlock, let me go and get out.”

Sherlock thought about it. “No,” he said with a smirk. He liked this game.

“Sherlock,” said John in a warning tone, “You really need to get out of here. If you’re spotted you’ll be expelled and I’ll be sacked.”

“I think I’ve made it plain that I don’t give a fuck about this university,” said Sherlock, “And you’ve made it abundantly clear that you don’t really give a fuck about keeping your situation here. So… why pretend?”

John sighed and said, “Release my hands.”

“Order me,” said Sherlock suddenly. He startled himself with these words.

“What?” said John.

“Order me to do it,” said Sherlock more boldly. He felt heat spread to his groin at the prospect of actually taking orders from Captain John Watson. Jesus…

John looked at his hands and then into Sherlock’s eyes. His pupils had blown wide with desire, the color chased to the very edges of his iris. This was turning him on. Unbelievable. Oh… my fucking… God…

John stuck out his chin and hardened his eyes. In his best Captain’s voice he said, “Mr. Holmes, release my hands,” and here he stuck his head forward toward Sherlock, slowly enunciating each word as he said: “That’s… an… order.”

Sherlock immediately dropped his hands, stepped back a pace and stood at a mediocre attempt at attention: hands to his sides, chest out, chin out, eyes ablaze with desire.

“You like taking orders, do you, Mr. Holmes?” said John. He couldn’t resist the temptation of the question. Were his fantasies really coming true? Jesus God…

“Yes, Captain… sir,” said Sherlock in a dusky tone. The man was fairly drooling with want. John felt his cock twitch.

Noises of approaching strangers came from down the corridor and both men jumped. “Take another order then, Sherlock,” said John quickly. “Get out. Get out and go. We can’t play this game.” Sherlock looked at John with longing in his eyes. “GO!” said John in a rough whisper. Sherlock reluctantly departed.

John sat back at his desk, heaving a sigh of relief. This shit has got to stop.


	5. Caution to the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John relies on a friend and makes a decision.

“Knock, knock…” said John as he poked his head in the doorway of Mike’s office.

“Come on in, John,” said Mike. “You aren’t supposed to be here today. What can I do for you?”

“Well… actually… I need to be able to confide in someone and you’re really the only person I trust. Well… in point of fact, you’re the only person I know here,” said John. “And I’d like this to be off the record, so to speak. I’m not coming to you as an employee; I need to talk to you as a friend. Alright?”

“Of course. What’s going on?” said Mike. His voice held genuine concern and he gestured to two chairs by the window. Snow was falling on campus and the pattern the frost made on the windowpanes was muting what light was coming from the afternoon sky.

“Sherlock Holmes,” said John.

“Oh dear God,” said Mike, “What’s he done now?”

“Nothing… but I think he’s… developed a bit of a crush on me,” said John.

“Oh God… no,” said Mike, “Really?”

“And… if I’m honest--” said John.

“Don’t finish that sentence,” said Mike, cutting him off, “You fancy that… that… arsehole?”

John raised an eyebrow at the unintentional innuendo and passed on the opportunity for commentary. “Well…,“ said John, “He is… attractive.”

“Jesus Christ, man!” said Mike. “Do you have any idea what the hell that could mean for Sherlock and you if word got out about the two of you?”

“I know,” said John, “I know. We haven’t done anything. Well… nothing significant… I’ve attempted to nip it in the bud, but Sherlock… he’s so fucking stubborn. And he really doesn’t care about his future, Mike. I mean, you tell him he’ll be expelled and what does he do? He shrugs and says, ‘So?’ He’s fucking unbelieveable.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing significant’ has happened?” asked Mike warily.

“Let’s just leave it,” said John, “The less of the specifics you know… It’ll give you plausible deniability if the shit hits the fan.”

“Jesus, John…,” said Mike. “This is really not good.”

“What do I do if it continues, though?” said John.

“Report it to the dean. Or better yet, the president of the university,” said Mike, “It’s the only course of action.”

“But that would get Sherlock expelled,” said John, “That’s the last thing that I want. Can’t he just transfer into your class?”

“Eyebrows are already being raised in your direction, John,” said Mike, “If a student transfer is requested, the dean will want to know why. And if you lie, you will be sacked.”

“But if I tell the truth, Sherlock will have a black mark on his reputation – darker than it is now. And that’s only going to hurt him. I can’t do that to him,” John said. “There’s got to be another way,” said John. He rose to leave. “Thanks for the talk, Mike. I’ll give it some thought and get back to you about it next week. We’ll see how well my classes go with him. Perhaps I can just… I don’t know… convince him that his future is actually worth something?” And with that, John left the room.

 

~080~

 

John sat on his bed and watched the snow fall. He was stuck. Sherlock was too good a person to be robbed of an education. Granted, many people in this world made good for themselves without a formal degree, but Sherlock had plans to be a forensic pathologist… didn't he? Would he really risk everything to throw that career away? And for what? Sex? It wasn’t worth it. John tried to warn him. What more could he do to help him? 

A good captain always takes care of his soldier…

John wanted to take care of Sherlock. Idly he wondered if the man managed to eat today. Or sleep… Was Sherlock asleep right now? It was late, nearly eleven thirty. Could the campus phones be up? Should he risk a phone call to him? 

An idea struck John. At the beginning of the term, John said that if the students wished to keep in touch with him as a resource for study, he would answer their emails. Had Sherlock emailed him? Should John email him now about this? It was the campus email system. Surely they would be found out. How could he communicate with Sherlock without raising any flags? It was impossible. John would simply have to wait until Wednesday’s class.

Why was John being so damned impatient? What was it that was so dire that he had to talk to Sherlock at eleven thirty at night on a Monday? John shook his head and lay down on his bed. It was too late to talk to anyone about anything. He may as well go to sleep.

John’s hand reached for the bedside light when a pebble hit his window. John sat up at the noise. What the hell?

Another pebble struck. John went to the window and looked down. Three stories below stood a dark figure with a blue scarf. The man was looking around as John gazed upon him, as though he were afraid to get caught for standing there. The figure looked up and the full moon caught his face. Sherlock.

What in hell’s name was that man doing here? Jesus… was he psychic too?

John raised the window and leaned out. “What do you want?” he said as clearly and quietly as he could. The snowfall held its own kind of silence. John was grateful for the buffer.

Softly he heard Sherlock’s voice: “Can I come up?”

“No, you idiot!” said John. “This is not a dormitory! I’ll come down. Give me a minute.”

John turned away from the window, shutting it to keep out the cold night air. He shivered with the change in temperature and turned to his wardrobe. He quickly stripped off his soft sleep clothes right down to his pants. He chose his dress blues. They were the warmest thing he owned, being of wool. Over that he wore his formal overcoat. He popped the collar and wrapped a scarf around it to keep his neck warm. Placing his cap on his head, he exited his rooms and headed down to meet Sherlock.

He was putting on his white gloves when he opened the door with his back – and ran straight into Sherlock. “Thank God,” said Sherlock, entering the building as though he belonged there, “I seriously thought you had fallen back asleep. I was gathering another rock when I spotted you coming out – finally.” He walked as he talked and John had been compelled to follow him. Sherlock was halfway up the stairs to the next level landing when John caught up with him and grabbed him by the elbow to turn him around.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here, Mr. Holmes?” asked Captain Watson, now in full military anger mode. “Do you have any idea what time of night this is? Or what trouble you could get me into for allowing you to enter a faculty residence?”

It was as if Sherlock were seeing John for the first time. He stared at this tempest of a man in his hat and woolen coat, his jaw flexing in anger. A jaw that Sherlock was certain was… so completely… delicious.

John clenched his jaw and waited for Sherlock to say something. As they stood on the landing, there was no further sound, each man waiting for the inevitable to happen. John felt his will seeping from his body the longer he stared into Sherlock’s face. Finally he forced himself to repeat: “Sherlock Holmes, tell me why you are here and tell me… right… now.”

Sherlock swallowed visibly and answered: “I heard you consulted with Professor Stamford. About me. Us.”

“There is no us,” said John, “and how did you hear about that? There was no one else in his office or out in the corridor, for that matter.”

“Professor Stamford came to me,” said Sherlock.

“He what?!” said John, incredulous.

“It’s true,” said Sherlock, “He found me in the science lab and spoke to me privately about us… I mean… you and I. He was concerned about your future. I guess the other students have spoken highly of you in his other classes. They’d like you to stay on. He asked me to leave the school willingly, or he’d find a way to force me out.”

“He did no such thing,” said John, “He wouldn’t dare.”

“He did, I’m afraid,” said Sherlock. “When have I ever lied to you, John?”

“Never,” said John glumly. His old friend Stamford… John couldn’t believe the betrayal. But Mike was only trying to protect John. Mike didn’t like Sherlock in the same way the entire fucking school didn’t like Sherlock. It was a goddamned conspiracy. Jesus H. Christ… “How can an entire school hate you so much?” he asked Sherlock, a profound sadness tingeing his features.

Sherlock shrugged. “It happens,” he said, “I’m used to it.”

John looked at him with shock and concern. “Sherlock,” said John, “you know it’s not supposed to be this way, don’t you? You know you’re supposed to have friends, people you can trust and have fun with. You’re supposed to enjoy your time at uni.”

Sherlock shrugged again but said nothing. He didn’t meet John’s eyes. He stared down the stairwell as though the most fascinating thing was the landing below.

John reached a white-gloved hand up and touched Sherlock’s face. He seemed so sad. He really did care that he had no friends, but he might also have been scared that he wouldn’t know what to do with a friend if he did manage to make one. John realized right at that moment that he was Sherlock’s only friend. John’s heart broke.

Sherlock looked at John when he felt his touch. For a moment, John looked curiously at him and then Sherlock saw his brow clear with an understanding of something that had eluded him. He felt John’s hand wrap a bit more around his neck and pull him down. Sherlock leaned into a kiss that melted his very soul.

Soft, sweet, tender… the kiss held all that John wanted to say to Sherlock. It was chaste, but firm and passionate. Sherlock grabbed for John’s hips instinctively and let John lead the kiss. John’s passion soon got the best of him and he licked Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock opened up his mouth and John’s bit Sherlock’s lower lip teasingly before allowing his tongue to lick at Sherlock’s tongue. Their mouths came together and soon their velvet tongues were dancing against one another, tasting the essence of each other, each man moaning into the other’s mouth at the sensation.

John’s head was spinning. If he lost his job, he could live off his pension – barely. If Sherlock lost his opportunity at this school, well… this was his third in two years. There was probably a good reason for that. The biggest shame wouldn’t be for him to lose his job or for Sherlock to be expelled; the biggest shame of this whole situation would be for them to lose their opportunity to be together. John made up his mind.

I want this man, dammit. He’s mine. And I’ll have him. Tonight.

John broke the kiss and led Sherlock by the hand up to his rooms.

 

~080~

 

Sherlock looked out the window onto the courtyard below. “Can I take your coat?” said John.

Sherlock turned around and gasped. John stood there in his dress blues, bare headed, his hat was on top of the wardrobe, his coat on a coat rack beside it. John held out a white-gloved hand to Sherlock and waited.

“Why are you wearing those?” Sherlock managed.

“What?” said John, looking down, “Oh… well… they’re the warmest things I own. I was going to meet you outside in the cold, wasn’t I?”

“True,” said Sherlock, removing his coat slowly revealing John’s favorite purple shirt and black suit. Bloody hell… that man…

“Would you be more comfortable in a chair? There’s one in the corner,” said John. He felt so awkward. How does one seduce one’s A&P student, anyway?

“Would you like me to sit, Captain?” said Sherlock, his voice instantly at a lower register. John felt his heart skip a beat. Oh… that’s how…

John turned away from Sherlock to hang up his coat and smirked. This was going to be fun. 

“On second thought…,” said John, turning back to Sherlock with a sharp about-face and clicking his heels together for effect, “No.” He walked to Sherlock with a slow, measured pace, savoring the moment.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow and stared at John in silence, a small smile creeping across his features. “Wipe that smile off your face, Mr. Holmes,” said Captain Watson. Sherlock did as he was commanded, arms dropping to his sides, posture straightening. Jesus, John was breathtaking when he took control.

“You want to be ordered about, do you?” said John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, his eyes blowing wide with desire, his voice almost a reverent whisper.

“’Yes, Captain’,” John corrected. “Or ‘yes, sir’. You’d do well to remember that, Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, Captain,” said Sherlock. “Apologies, sir.”

“Very well,” said John. “You want to play soldier? Fine. But you will follow my orders to the letter. There will be discipline here. Or there will be hell to pay. Do you understand, soldier?”

“Yes, Captain,” said Sherlock.

“Good…,” said John, squaring his shoulders, “What’s your safety word, boy?”

“Sir?” said Sherlock, taken aback. Holy God… there would be need for a safety word? Seriously?

“Your safety word, dammit,” said John. “What is it? We cannot do this without one and you need to think of it before we proceed. One mention of your safety word and everything stops for as long as you’d like. Understand? Now… What the hell is your safety word, soldier?”

Sherlock thought for a moment and said: “Copper.”

“Copper,” John repeated, “Very well. You say ‘copper’ and all this stops. Got it?”

“Sir, yes sir,” said Sherlock. Oh this man was indeed interesting. And the night was young.

“Right,” said John in a soft voice. “Strip.”

Sherlock hesitated. “I like my orders followed immediately and without question, Mr. Holmes,” said John sternly but still in that soft voice. The effect was even more menacing than if he had barked the orders at Sherlock. It was enough to spread gooseflesh all over Sherlock’s body. 

John went on: “I’ve asked you to strip. Now do so… and when you do: place your jacket on the coat rack, fold your clothes neatly and place them on the table next to the door and when you remove your socks and shoes, fold each sock neatly and place it inside each shoe, leaving the shoes under the table.” John stepped to the side to allow Sherlock to do as commanded. “Now… go.”

Sherlock visibly swallowed and damn near swooned. He did his best to remember all John had told him. John watched at Sherlock walked to the door and did as instructed. Perfection greeted his eyes as the inches of Sherlock’s white flesh were revealed to him. John felt himself getting hard as he saw Sherlock’s bare arse for the first time. Sherlock performed his required task with ease and grace, even down to neatly folding his socks as John had ordered. What a good boy, a good soldier…

“Lock the door, Sherlock,” said John. Sherlock complied.

“Come back here and face the window,” said John softly.

Sherlock stood naked facing the window and John walked slowly around him, taking him all in with hungry eyes. “You’ve shown great discipline so far, Mr. Holmes,” he said as he walked around him. Sherlock shivered. Not because of the chill in the room, but more from the anticipation, the sheer… want.

John continued, “Now I’m going to ask you to use even more discipline,” here he stopped in front of Sherlock, looking him up and down. His penis was half erect and the tip was wet, but not dripping. Well… that would change soon enough. His tuft of hair above his stiffening member led a trail to his navel. John ached to dip his tongue inside for a taste, but resisted. All in good time…

John looked into Sherlock’s face. Sherlock was giving him a hundred-yard stare off above his head and John couldn’t be more proud. Excellent control. Good… very good. “Kneel, boy, arse off your feet,” said John. Sherlock went to his knees on the wooden floor immediately. “Hands clasped behind your back,” ordered Captain Watson.

John came around behind Sherlock and leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Whatever you do, you are not to look around. You are to remain like this until I say otherwise. You are not to speak. Do you understand?” Sherlock nodded. “Good,” said John, his breath tickling Sherlock’s ear, “There’s no room for undisciplined boys in the Queen’s Army.”

John moved to the wardrobe and undressed slowly. He took his time, watching Sherlock, knowing that he would find a moment where Sherlock’s discipline broke down. He was stripped to the waist when Sherlock flinched. John had just unzipped his trousers and Sherlock’s head half-turned at the sound, his breath visibly quickening. Oh you want it, don’t you, boy… filthy boy…

“MIS-ter, Holmes!” said John sharply enough to make Sherlock flinch and snap his head back in place, but not loudly enough to wake his neighbors. Once control was regained, John finished undressing himself and stood to Sherlock’s left, staring down at him. Sherlock didn’t even dare glance at John, even though he ached to. He wanted to see the dog tags that gleamed on his chest. He wanted to take in every curve of every muscle. He wanted to lick that scar. Fuck…

John walked around Sherlock, allowing him to see his hardened dick as he passed in front of him. John watched with interest as Sherlock’s dick became harder, precum causing the head to glisten. Still not dripping, though… shame that. Ah well… must just crack on then.

John stood behind Sherlock and leaned in close. “You disobeyed a direct order, Mr. Holmes,” said John. “You know what that means?”

“Disciplinary action, sir?” said Sherlock.

“Exactly,” said John. John went to his bed and placed his pillow on the floor in front of the mattress. “Kneel on this and rest your head and arms on the bed.”

Sherlock rose stiffly and despite the argument from his knees, knelt on the pillow and lay on the mattress as instructed.

“Count, Mister Holmes,” said John.

Count what?

John’s hand came down firmly on Sherlock’s left buttock. Oh… Oh, yes… Thank you, Captain… I’ve been such a bad soldier...

“One,” said Sherlock breathlessly. I’ve been so undisciplined… Another blow landed on his other buttock. John smoothed his hand over Sherlock’s arse cheeks, savoring the feel of them and enjoying the power he had been given over this beautiful body.

“Two,” said Sherlock. I need this… I’ve been so bad…

John smacked Sherlock over and over; it was delicious. Sherlock’s arse began to tingle and sting with every slap as John made him count out his punishment.

“Three…four…five…six…seven…eight…”

John leaned in closely to Sherlock and whispered, “What’s your safety word, boy?”

Sherlock’s head was reeling. Between the discipline and the hardening of his cock, he was lost to the sensation. But he had to remember… for his captain. He had to make Captain Watson proud. Slowly, frighteningly sluggishly, his brain pulled out the word he needed: “Copper.”

“Good man,” said John. “Keep counting. Your punishment is almost over.”

“Nine… 

“Ten…”

“On your feet,” said John. Sherlock stood and faced the bed. He remained perfectly still awaiting his next orders. John couldn’t be more proud of him. Sherlock’s arse was pink, the flesh quivering slightly to the lightest touch as John traced a finger along one of Sherlock’s buttocks and up into that dip just above his arse crack. The man had the figure of a work of fucking art. Michaelangelo couldn’t have carved better.

John came around to Sherlock’s side checking his prick’s progress. Cum dripped freely from Sherlock’s tip. Perfect. John reached down and caught some on his finger. He moved around between Sherlock and the bed where Sherlock could watch him put that finger in his mouth to taste Sherlock. Son of a bitch that boy tasted good… Jesus fuck.

Sherlock salivated as he watched John taste him. Sherlock wanted to lick his finger too. A taste of you… that’s all I need, Captain… please…

John saw Sherlock tremble with want and smiled. “You want some too?” he asked.

“Yes, Captain,” said Sherlock.

John put his hand down to gather more precum, watching Sherlock’s dick twitch at the possibility of contact. John was careful not to touch him and his hand came up to Sherlock’s face. He held his first and second fingers, wet with the stuff, an inch away from Sherlock’s mouth. “Have a taste, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock looked at John’s fingers, opened his mouth and, leading with his tongue, wrapped his lips around John’s fingers to the second knuckle, slowly sucking and working his tongue between John’s first and second fingers, never taking his crystalline eyes off of his gorgeous captain. John nearly fainted from the sensation.

As Sherlock pulled off of his hand with a wet pop, John realized that he was leaking too. Oh my great God in heaven… “You are just the filthiest boy, aren’t you, Mr. Holmes?” said John, his voice sounding out at a lower register.

“If you say so, sir,” said Sherlock, his voice equally as dusky.

“Do you know what filthy boys deserve, Mr. Holmes?” said John.

“Discipline?” said Sherlock.

Oh you are an eager bugger, aren’t you? Christ…

“Not quite,” said John. “No, a filthy boy deserves to get his mouth washed out.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “But,” said John, “I have no soap handy, so I suppose we’ll have to make do. On your knees, boy.”

Sherlock got back on his knees onto the pillow as John stood before him, his cock leaking.

“Suck my cock,” said John softly, “Do NOT use your hands. Filthy boys don’t touch good captains.”

Oh dear God… yes please, Captain… I’ve wanted this for so fucking long… and I’ll be a good soldier for you… 

Sherlock took John’s head into his mouth and it was better than John ever thought it would be. John had a thick cock and Sherlock’s wide Cupid’s bow was a perfect fit. Sherlock’s cheeks hollowed out with the suction, making his glorious cheekbones even more pronounced. Gorgeous… simply gorgeous…

As John watched Sherlock’s black curls bob below, Sherlock looked up and watched his captain slowly come undone as he worked his tongue against John’s shaft with every slow, deliberate sucking stroke. Sherlock wanted this to last. He wanted John to be pleased with him. He wanted his captain to be proud.

Am I a good soldier yet, Captain?... I want to be… please, Captain… I want to be good for you…

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back so as not to disobey orders and leaned in and out with every stroke of his mouth. He felt John caressing his head, never pushing, just enjoying the feel of his hair in his hands and his mouth on his prick.

“Oh… fuck…” said John, “Jesus… you are so fucking good at this…. Oh fuck, Sherlock… yes….”

Sherlock was so happy that John was pleased. He hummed his joy around John’s tip, flicking his frenulum with his tongue.

“Oh! Jesus! That’s it… Oh you filthy boy… You want me to cum right down your throat, don’t you?” said John. If Sherlock’s talent at sucking dick were any indication of his prowess in bed, John was done for. This was the best head he had ever gotten in his life.

Sherlock smiled around John’s cock, looking for all the world like a naughty school boy sucking on a wet, dripping lollipop. It was too much. John was going to cum if he didn’t stop this now. And John didn’t want to cum in Sherlock’s mouth… oh no, you dirty boy… Captain Watson wants to hear you scream his name as he fucks you… 

John pulled his dick out of Sherlock’s mouth. The wet pop noise that greeted their ears was obscene. “On your feet and into the bed, Mr. Holmes,” said John. “On your back.”

Sherlock complied easily, dissatisfied that he didn’t get to finish John off, but interested as to where John was leading him. Sherlock waited patiently as John rifled in the bedside table for lube and condoms, his cock still hard and dripping.

“You’ve done well, Mr. Holmes,” said John. “I’m very proud of you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Sherlock.

“In fact, you’ve been so good, I think I’ll reward you. Would you like that?”

“Oh yes, sir,” said Sherlock, mischievously adding: “I’d like anything you’d give me.”

John paused as he was climbing onto the bed to join his soldier. He looked at Sherlock with impish glee and smiled. “Would you, now? Well…”

John positioned himself between Sherlock’s legs and without preamble took his hard prick in his mouth. Sherlock’s hips jerked at the sensation and his breathing stuttered. Clearly, he wasn’t really expecting this. John delighted in the fact that he had fooled as great a mind as Sherlock’s.

John’s mouth worked Sherlock’s prick in much the same manner as he did his own: focusing on suction and the frenulum just below the head, John made Sherlock gasp and moan, jerk and twist with every pass on his shaft. John’s hands caressed the outside of Sherlock’s thighs and massaged his buttocks in rhythm to his stroke. John felt Sherlock slip his hands into his hair as he came up to worry the head of Sherlock’s prick with his tongue, flicking at the frenulum and licking across the slit. Oh… you taste so fucking good, Sherlock… I could eat your prick for days… so goddamned good…

John cupped Sherlock’s balls as he came off his dick, a trail of precum leading from his mouth back to Sherlock’s tip. Sherlock looked down at John and saw raw savage want in his eyes. Take me, Captain… take what’s yours… claim me… I’m your soldier… only yours…. I want… I want… God, Captain… please…

Sherlock handed John the small bottle of lube from the nightstand without being told.

“Anticipating my orders, are we, Mr. Holmes?” said John with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry, Captain, sir,” said Sherlock fairly panting, “I just thought… I mean… I need… Oh God… Please… sir…”

John was stunned. Sherlock was writhing on his bed, aching for John to put his dick in him. “I’ll forgive you just this once, Mr. Holmes,” said John playfully, “But next time… I spank.”

“Oh please… Captain,” said Sherlock, “Spank me anyway.”

John grinned. “On all fours, Sherlock… Now.”

Sherlock couldn’t move fast enough. His head was on the mattress, his arms to either side of his face, legs akimbo and his arse in the air. John saw Sherlock wiggle his arse in anticipation. “You like your discipline, don’t you, you filthy boy?” asked John.

“Only the kind that comes from my captain, sir,” said Sherlock. John grinned and smacked Sherlock’s arse, leaving a red mark of his hand behind.

“Oh yes…,” said Sherlock, “Please… punish me more… I’ve been such a filthy boy… completely dirty… I need it… Please, Captain.”

John nearly came from the wanton behavior and words coming from Sherlock. This was just too fucking perfect. John smacked Sherlock’s arse again and heard the man keen with pleasure and want. He smacked him again, just a bit harder.

“Christ! Oh John… yes, John… sir… please…” cried Sherlock.

That tore it. John couldn’t stand it any longer. He had to be inside this beautiful creature. He rolled on a condom, lubed up his hand, and placed one finger at Sherlock’s opening. “How about we do this?” said John as he slowly pushed his finger inside Sherlock. Sherlock hissed with pleasure and John worked his finger in and out of him in a slow, steady rhythm.

“Oh fuck, yes…” said Sherlock. “Yes, sir… we can do that, sir… anything you say. Anything at all, my Captain. My John… Oh God… Shit…”

John slowly introduced two more fingers one at a time into this beautiful boy. Hitting Sherlock’s prostate with almost every stroke, he had the man whimpering. John lightly bit Sherlock’s arse with every hit of his prostate, causing Sherlock to damn near lose his mind.

By the time the third finger was inside him, John was certain that Sherlock was opened up nicely; John would be able to get his cock into Sherlock with little trouble. He slicked himself up, lined his cock with Sherlock’s arse and slowly pushed in, allowing for Sherlock to adjust to his girth. The heat combined with the sensation of his head pushing past Sherlock’s sphincter muscles was almost enough to make John cum on the spot. He pushed in further and waited again for Sherlock to adjust.

Sherlock reached back and pulled at John’s hip, urging him to go deeper, begging him for more: “Please, Captain… I’m your soldier… take care of me…. I want this… please, sir… I want you to claim me… tell the world I’m yours… Please, Captain… Own me, sir… I need… discipline…”

John was through being nice. He slammed deeply into Sherlock and the man keened with delight. “More… God, please… more, sir… fuck me… please sir…” whimpered Sherlock.

“You are in no position… to give orders… you… filthy… boy…” said John, his words coming with every hard thrust of his cock into Sherlock. “You… have… no… idea… what… discipline… is…. But… I … will… teach… you…”

“Oh yes…” cried Sherlock, “Teach me, Captain… I want to learn… I want to be your good soldier… please, sir… ah! Ah! Fuck me…. Oh, God, John!”

John thrust into Sherlock harder and harder, feeling his orgasm build as the man beneath him writhed with longing. John came into Sherlock with a stifled cry. It felt so good to release inside him… finally… after all the weeks and months of want and fantasy, to be here, in this moment… it was its own ecstasy.

John reached around and pulled on Sherlock’s neglected cock. He leaned in his ear and whispered through his panting breaths: “You wanted that… didn’t you… you filthy beggar…. You wanted me to fill you up... And now… you’re going to cum for me… aren’t you?… aren’t you? Dirty boy…”

Sherlock came calling out John’s name and thanking him over and over: “John! Oh God, John! Thank you, sir… Oh Jesus God… thank you… thank you… thank you… Oh My John… thank God for you…”

John pulled out of Sherlock and both men collapsed on the bed, their breath heaving. John looked at the clock. No classes tomorrow for him and Sherlock was already drifting into sleep at his side. Despite all the trouble it would cause, John really couldn’t see how this could be anything other than completely right. Sherlock was his, and he was Sherlock’s, and that was an end to it.

John got both he and Sherlock under the soiled duvet. Cleaning it would have to wait until morning.

Sherlock curled around him and rested his head on his chest. John pressed his face into the black curls and let sleep take him.

Yes… Sherlock was his. And he belonged to Sherlock.

Consequences be damned.


	6. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John had once thought: 'Consequences be damned'. 
> 
> Well... here come the consequences.

John was putting on his coat Wednesday morning as Sherlock watched from the bed. He sat on the mattress, feet dangling on the floor, naked save the sheet and duvet covering his waist. He pouted.

“Don’t look at me like that,” said John, putting on his camouflage jacket. “You know I have office hours to keep and a class to teach this afternoon.”

“But that’s not for ages!” said Sherlock.

“It’s in exactly three hours,” said John. “And I need a real breakfast. Cold Chinese only goes so far with me.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock whining and throwing his head back, “just sod the whole fucking thing and come back to bed!”

“I… can’t…,” said John slowly, hoping that this time the message of responsibility will sink in. “You are not my only student, you know.” Sherlock opened his mouth to say something snarky and John cut him off: “And they are students who actually care about their futures. Students who need to pass the class so that they can go on to be doctors and pathologists and such. You, on the other hand, seem to only care about yourself and how many times I can bring you to orgasm.”

Sherlock smiled at this. In two days it had been eighteen times. That must be some kind of a record, a personal best, most definitely.

“Sherlock,” said John seeing the goofy grin on his face, “I am trying to be serious here.”

Sherlock’s face dropped and after a moment’s thought he said, “Why in God’s name do you care so damn much?”

“Because…,” began John, “No. You know what? No. Let me ask you this,” John stood in front of Sherlock, “Why don’t you care at all?”

“I’m a high-functioning sociopath. I don’t know how to care,” said Sherlock simply.

John looked Sherlock in the eye and said, “Liar.”

Again, Sherlock tried to open his mouth for a retort and John spoke first: “Look… for what it’s worth… you asked me the other day if I loved you. Well… I do. I must! To put up with an annoying prick like you, I have to be a man in love. But I’m also a man who does not consider himself a social outcast nor do I consider myself a particularly cruel person.

“I want to help people. I want to help you! And you shut me down time after time, not only risking your future, but selfishly risking my livelihood. I don’t appreciate it, Sherlock.

“Now I’m leaving. Take what you want from the fridge to eat and get showered and dressed. If you wait until later in the morning, most people would have already gone to classes and you’ll have an opportunity to sneak out. And you must sneak out, Sherlock. None of this bravado as you sweep around the building with your coat collar turned up so you look cool. You do this for me. You get out of this building without being seen.”

“And we pretend like this never happened,” said Sherlock sadly and his head sank.

“I’m afraid we have to,” said John regretfully.

“I hate that,” said Sherlock. He picked up his head and looked John square in the eyes. “You love me?”

“Yes,” said John, kissing him on the forehead, “I love you. And don’t worry about having to return the sentiment. I wouldn’t expect such a statement from you anyway. I also won’t expect you in class today. So…goodbye. Lock the door when you leave.”

And with that, he was gone.

Sherlock sat staring at the door for what could have been hours, he never kept track. Eventually his feet had gone cold and almost numb with the temperature in the room and he took a hot bath. As he soaked, he steepled his fingers and thought about the relationship that was growing between John and himself.

Did he want to bother with John? Could he live without this man? Eighteen orgasms were just chemical reactions, after all. Sex aside, did he want to be with John? And what would that mean?

Their relationship would have to be a secret. Could they both live like that? Sneaking about looking for cupboards to snog in.... It sounded so… juvenile. Sherlock wanted to live his life out in the open. He wanted to let the world know who John was and what he meant to him. He wanted to defend and support his captain.

Was that love? Sherlock didn’t know. Certainly love involved some kind of sacrifice. But what was Sherlock risking that he hated to lose? He didn’t give a damn about the university. He only cared about being with John, which was a simple thing to do if you felt you had nothing at risk.

Sherlock sighed. The bathwater had gone cold and he was shivering as he toweled off. This would require much more thought than he had time for. He respected John’s request by eating something and getting dressed. Sherlock looked at the bed that had held so many memories over the past two days and he felt something inside himself soften.

I do love you, John Watson. I just have no idea what that means.

 

~080~

 

John’s door closed with a loud click. Sherlock checked the handle to assure himself that it was secure and as he turned away, he came face to face with Donna Sinclair.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him sternly, “Students aren’t permitted in this building.”

Sherlock thought quickly. Everyone on campus knew about ‘Donna Does’. She was the campus flirt working in the registrar’s office. And since she was administration and not teaching staff, Sherlock said, “And neither are you. What are you doing here?” He looked down at her hands. She was carrying a teddy bear dressed in hospital scrubs and a card. “Dropping off a present for your latest sweetheart?” he asked.

“What?” said Donna, “Well… ye—Oi! That’s none of your business, young man. Now explain to me why you were in Captain Watson’s rooms.”

“How did you know that these were his rooms? Oh…,” said Sherlock, “You’ve been stalking the captain ever since he came into the registrar’s office to investigate me. Interesting. So the bear and the card and the hair done differently and the rather generous application of scent, eye shadow, and lipstick are for his benefit. I see…”

Donna shook her head, “Stop changing the subject – ‘rather generous’?! You little bastard! What are you trying to say? That I look like a tart?”

“More or less,” said Sherlock frankly, “Yes.”

“Why you little---,“ she began.

“Bastard,” said Sherlock, “Yes, I think you’ve already said that.”

“Explain to me why you were in Captain Watson’s rooms right now, young man, or I will report you,” said Donna firmly.

“I was leaving to go to class,” Sherlock lied. He had already missed John’s class, having soaked for so long. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late.” He attempted to breeze past her, but she blocked his way.

“Oh no, sunny Jim,” said Donna, now completely incensed, “You’re not going anywhere until you give me a damn good reason why you were in those rooms – right now!”

Sherlock sighed. This was becoming very boring. He looked Donna square in the eye, leaned in and said, “Because we’ve been in there for the past two days shagging like monkeys,” and walked past her shocked frame and out of the building.

 

~080~

 

Mike Stamford walked across campus with a purpose. He’ll be damned if someone is going to malign his reputation. He couldn’t believe the word that had reached his ears. But considering the last time he spoke with John about the boy…

Mike skipped up the steps of the sciences building, pushing past students who were getting out of one of the ground floor classrooms. “Let me through, please,” he called out. No one really paid him any mind. He used his bulk to push into the student flow and felt like a salmon swimming upstream. He headed for the stairs.

He went up toward the third floor offices. The dean would get an earful from him on this. He could believe it from Sherlock, but to hear about John? It was almost unthinkable.

That rotten apple Sherlock should have left school when Mike asked him to. He should have packed his bags immediately. But no… he’s too selfish and arrogant. Mike bet Sherlock didn’t think about John or his future with this university once. Not once!

Third floor landing achieved, Mike paused to pant. He wasn’t as young or slim as he used to be. And now, because of this male Lolita – no – this snake in the grass, this Borgia… John and his future were at risk. Mike didn’t see what John saw in the reprobate. All he was was trouble. All he ever did was cause upset and chaos. God damned child.

Mike knocked on the door of the dean’s office. A voice bit him enter and the dean’s secretary looked up from her computer.

‘Oh, hullo, Mike!” she said.

“Yes, hello, Maggie,” said Mike, still a bit out of breath and in a damned hurry, “Alfie in? I need to speak to him.”

“Yes, he is,” she said, confused, “Is everything alright?”

“Decidedly not,” said Mike as he pushed the door open.

Alfred Parson was the dean of the medical college at the university. He had begun his career as a student, graduated to become a TA, then went on to study further to become a professor, then a chair, and now dean. He was a man of sixty with the heart and mind of a man of eighty-three. He was always whining on about his ailments, of which he had many. And anything that brought him added stress in his duties always gave him a pain.

On this particular day, Alfred had three pains and a gouty foot. He sat sideways to his desk and didn't look up when Mike burst in. Mike’s news did not arrive as a bird of happiness.

“Have you confirmed this rumor, Michael?” asked Alfie.

“It’s not a rumor,” said Mike, “I got it from Donna’s lips herself. Found her crying about it, actually. When she told me, I was just floored. I came to see you straight off. There’s really no need to doubt her story. I understand all too well what’s going on here and I fear the worst for John. He’s a good soldier, but he’s gone a bit soft for this boy. He’s got no friends, just like John – excepting me, of course—“

“Of course,” echoed Alfie absently and then asked Mike: “Does this foot look alright to you?”

Mike blinked at the non sequitur. He looked at the foot that had been soaking in Epsom salts in a basin behind Alfie’s grand desk and that Alfie now held aloft.

“Looks alright to me…” said Mike vaguely.

“Hurts like the dickens,” said Alfie, lowering it back into the basin, “Gout.”

“Oh,” said Mike, “so sorry… um…” Mike cleared his throat. “I realize that you’re deuced busy, but if you could compose an email to the president, or ring him up, letting him know of the situation, I would be dashed happy about it.” Mike always turned into a 1920’s version of himself when he was around Alfie for too long. It was as if Alfie had the ability to take your life energy from you as you sat there in his presence and age you to the point where you started using outdated language.

“Well…” said Alfie, “it is a damned nuisance. Can’t you just sack the fellow and be done with it?”

“John has done nothing wrong,” said Mike defensively, “I know it. He’s been seduced and tricked by that… that… person.” The last word came out of Mike’s mouth with an expression of disdain that Mike didn’t know he possessed.

“Then he mustn’t have been a very good soldier,” said Alfie.

“John?! Not a good--,” Mike choked on the insult. “Alfred, you and I have known each other for some years, but John and I went to medical school together. I was there when he shipped off for Afghanistan. Oh, no… he’s the best soldier and doctor I know. No, the fault lies with the student. He can’t be transferred, lest he poison someone else with his manipulative ways. No… he needs expulsion!”

“Well…,” said Alfie after a moment or two watching his foot soak, “If you feel that strongly about it, I’ll have Maggie call the president. We’ll have the boy off the campus in the next day or two.”

“Oh thank you, Alfie,” said Mike, “you’re a real pal.”

 

~080~

 

“I have bad news,” said Sherlock to John as they crossed campus.

“What is it now?“ asked John.

“I have it on good authority that your friend Professor Stamford has gone to the dean and plans on speaking with the president about… you and I,” said Sherlock.

John stopped in his tracks and looked at Sherlock. “What?!” he said. John and Sherlock had spent those two days together, it’s true. They stayed in his rooms, never needing to leave as it was an ensuite and John had a small fridge as well. The second day, they did order Chinese…

“No, Captain,” said Sherlock dismissively, “The Chinese food delivery boy didn’t give us away. I’m afraid I did.”

“You what?!” shouted John, loudly enough to where other students turned to stare at them. John looked around, lowered his voice and repeated, “You what?”

“I am sorry, John--,” began Sherlock.

“Sorry… heh,” said John, “you have no idea what the word means, Sherlock. You have no fucking clue. Jesus Christ! Bad enough you’re self destructive, but did you have to take me down with you? Oh fucking hell.”

“Stop, John,” said Sherlock, “Calm down. The president of the university is a family friend. He won’t do anything to me and if I ask, nothing will happen to you.”

John stared at Sherlock. “’A family friend’,” he repeated. Sherlock nodded. “And you think it’s as simple as all that, do you?” Sherlock looked confused. John would keep his job; Sherlock would keep being a student. What was the problem?

“You daft git,” said John, “My on-campus reputation is ruined, thanks to you. I don’t know if by next class the students will be able to… Jesus… they’ll just sit there and judge the both of us, won’t they? Look for signs that say: ‘oh yes… they’re shagging alright.’ It’ll be awful. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. Thank you so fucking much. Do me a favor and don’t do me any favors. Do not make any phone calls to mummy or daddy on my behalf. I really don’t want any more of your help.” John strode off across the campus grounds toward his rooms. He figured he had just enough time to pack his things before he was sacked.

Sherlock watched John’s retreating figure and wondered how he could possibly fix this. He followed John over the campus grounds and back to his residence building. Catching the main door just before it latched, he strode into John’s rooms as he was attempting to close the door.

“No, John,” said Sherlock, as John attempted feebly to push him out, “We need to speak about this.”

John relented, closing the door behind Sherlock. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room staring out of John’s windows, just as he did two nights ago. John stared at his back… God, had it been that little time ago? Seemed like ages.

“So…,” began John, “Talk.”

“You’re concerned about your reputation,” said Sherlock, ”I understand that. But you have to let me help you keep your job. If it means that much to you, I can do that for you. The reputation will come back – after I leave school.”

“What?” said John.

“That’s what has to happen here, John,” said Sherlock, turning to face him. The light from the window created a halo effect on his hair. John thought he looked like an angel of judgment.

“That’s not how this happens,” said John, “The University has rules, rules that must be strictly adhered to for the benefit of the student body, and one of those rules is: teachers don’t shag students. If they do, they are sacked, plain and simple. The student is never at fault because the teacher is supposed to be the adult. The teacher is meant to make the good and healthy decisions. And I’ve done wrong by you, Sherlock. As your teacher, I have done you no good. I felt too deeply for you and I managed to fall in love and it’s all my fucking fault---“

Sherlock cut John off with a kiss. He had strode forward and grabbed both sides of John’s face as he fret and worried and talked. The kiss was tender and passionate, as all their kisses were. John reflexively clutched at Sherlock’s coat and pulled him closer. Sherlock wrapped his long arms around his captain, never intending to let go.

The kiss broke and they panted into each other’s mouths. John looked at Sherlock. If they made love now, it would be for the last time. John was certain of that just as he was certain of his fate, especially if Sherlock’s parents were informed. He’d never see Sherlock again. He just hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t be affected so deeply as to never be able to get into another college or university anywhere else. But then, he could always study abroad, maybe in America or someplace. There was still hope for him.

Sherlock was unzipping John’s jacket and pushing it off of his shoulders, kissing down John’s neck as he did so. John leaned his head back, allowing Sherlock better access and let out a low moan of pleasure. Dear God, what that boy can do to me…

The jacket fell to the floor and Sherlock’s coat and scarf were next to it in seconds. Each man peeled clothing off of the other as they kissed their way toward the bed, Sherlock leading the way, walking backwards. The back of his legs hit the mattress and he stopped. John was unfastening his trousers, attempting to release Sherlock’s building hard-on.

As soon as Sherlock’s dick sprung free, John dropped to his knees and began sucking him off. Sherlock let out a moan and his breath caught on the inhale. John’s mouth felt so fucking warm and wet and just plain… good. John teased at Sherlock’s frenulum and Sherlock keened, carding a hand through the soldier’s hair. Thank you, Captain… thank you…

John took Sherlock as deeply as he could, holding tight to his hips. There was no preamble to his dick sucking this time. He had to go straight for it as he knew any moment now, campus police would probably be sent around to escort him from the property. He hated that he couldn’t savor the moment with Sherlock, but he really just wanted to fuck the hell out of the man before he would never get another chance.

John pulled off of Sherlock’s now incredibly hard dick and stood up. Sherlock took him in a kiss, tasting both John and himself as their tongues wrapped around each other in a dance they had perfected over the past two days. John caressed Sherlock’s perfect arse under his trousers and let the material drop to the floor as he worked. John fingered Sherlock’s crack and opening and Sherlock hummed his approval through their kiss.

“On your back, boy,” growled John.

“Sir, yes, sir,” said Sherlock breathlessly. He loved taking orders from John. He stripped off what clothing remained around his ankles and got into bed.

John said, “Stroke yourself, Sherlock. I want to watch you.”

Sherlock got a quick flashback of a certain afternoon shower and smiled. He grabbed his cock firmly and began to wank.

“Slower,” said John. The soldier was completely naked, cock erect and dripping. Sherlock marveled at John’s control as John seemed to be calmly watching Sherlock fuck himself. It was such a fucking turn-on.

Sherlock slowed his stroke and his hips thrust in protest. “No, Sherlock,” said John. “Resist the temptation to fuck your fist. I want to see you beg me for release. You’re mine now, you filthy boy.”

Oh fucking Christ… yes, captain… dear God yes….

“Permission to speak, captain,” said Sherlock with desperation tingeing his voice.

“Permission granted,” said John quietly. He was trying to concentrate on the bead of precum he could see forming on Sherlock’s prick. He was trying not to reflexively leap onto him to lick it clean. God, he wanted to… badly…

“I really want to suck you off, captain,” said Sherlock. “May I?”

“If you promise not to touch my dick with anything other than your mouth, you may,” said John.

“I promise, captain,” said Sherlock, practically pleading.

“Very well,” said John and he got on his knees near Sherlock’s head, leaned over Sherlock, balancing with one hand, and held his dick with the other hand at Sherlock’s mouth. “Suck on that, you slut,” he said.

Sherlock took in John’s thick cock as deeply as he could. Jesus fuck, Sherlock… Son of a…

Sherlock bobbed his head as best he could while never losing his stroke on his cock. It was too fucking perfect. The taste of John blended with the idea that John was watching him wank was almost enough to make Sherlock come on the spot.

John looked down at Sherlock’s mouth on his cock and then over at Sherlock’s hand on his own perfect dick. Jesus… it was sensory overload. During the past two days he and Sherlock had tried all kinds of positions. But this was one they hadn’t thought of… and John was so glad. John stroked Sherlock’s face soothingly as the man’s perfect lips were wrapped around John’s dick, sucking enthusiastically.

“Slow that stroke, soldier,” said John. Sherlock’s hand complied. His mouth did too. Keeping the two activities at the same pace was the only way that Sherlock could keep up both masturbating and fellating simultaneously.

John looked down at his hard thick cock moving in and out of Sherlock’s mouth. It was hypnotizing. “That’s it, you slut. Mouth fuck your captain,” said John, his voice at a lower register. “You want this, don’t you? You want me to cum in your mouth, don’t you? And you’ll swallow it all, you dirty boy. You’ll eat all my seed and then lick me clean. Because you’re my soldier, aren’t you, you pretty boy?” John continued to stroke Sherlock’s face and card his hand through his hair as his head bobbed around John’s prick slowly, sucking on his head, and then taking in his shaft once more. It was achingly beautiful.

Sherlock moaned at all the dirty talk. He had become excited at the thought of being commanded and ordered around by John, but he never thought that being called a slut would do such profound things to him. It was so filthy and yet… ugh… too fucking good. What Sherlock wouldn’t give for John to take him like this in the middle of class… telling him what to do… calling him a filthy slut as Sherlock licked his cock clean…will that do for inspection, captain?...oh my fucking Christ…

The hand that was supporting John’s weight was tiring. He sat up and his dick came out of Sherlock’s mouth. John looked down and saw a trail of precum leading from his tip to Sherlock’s mouth as Sherlock leaned over to take in his dick again, not wanting to let the taste and feel of John’s dick go. Bloody hell… the boy was insatiable. John stroked Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock turned his body to still perform his orders. What a good soldier… always wanting to please his captain… so good…fuck.

“You hungry boy,” said John, “You really just want to eat my dick all damn day, don’t you?” Sherlock hummed an assent around John’s cock. The shaft was coated in saliva and shone as Sherlock continued his ministrations. John looked over at Sherlock’s prick. The tip was dripping more and more with each stroke and John put out his hand to catch some of it on his fingers. He licked his fingers, tasting the salty bitterness of Sherlock as Sherlock watched him with eyes blown wide in longing.

“Off my dick now, Sherlock,” said John. “It’s almost time for your pounding.”

Sherlock loved this name for fucking. That’s exactly what it was… a pounding rhythm that made him ache in all the right places. Sherlock pulled off John’s dick, precum still trailing his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of one hand as he waited for further instruction from his CO.

John moved toward Sherlock’s prick, licked the tip as a tease, and tasted his precum. Sherlock always tasted so fucking good. John looked at Sherlock’s debauched face and said, “This will never do. You’ll never pass inspection. You’re too filthy.” Sherlock stared at him. John continued: “We’ll just have to get you cleaned up.” John got to his feet and looked down at Sherlock who was clearly confused. “Come with me, soldier,” said John with a grin.

John walked into the bathroom and turned on the hot water taps for the bathtub. He plugged the drain and watched the water fill. Sherlock stopped just inside the doorway, watching this procedure. John held out a hand to him. Sherlock walked to John and took it in silence. “We’re going to get you all cleaned up, Sherlock,” said John with that same grin on his face.

“Sir?” said Sherlock.

“Yes, soldier?” said John.

“What about my pounding?” said Sherlock.

“Oh you’re going to get that, boy,” said John menacingly. “There’s no doubt of that.” John kissed Sherlock, tonguing him and tasting the mingling traces of both of them. John grabbed both their dicks together in one hand and moved them together for a few seconds. “Don’t you worry,’ he said to Sherlock, “You’ll be screaming for me before long, soldier. Just be patient. A good captain never neglects the needs of those he commands. And you’re mine, soldier. All mine.”

Sherlock grinned and nodded. He would be patient then. For John.

When the tub had a few inches of hot water in it, John broke from Sherlock and put his hand in to test it, asking Sherlock to do the same. He tempered it with some cold water for just a bit, and then had Sherlock get in. John got a sponge and some soap and began to bathe Sherlock. He wanted to enjoy the last moments he had with this extraordinary creature. He wanted to memorize every freckle, every mole, every dip and curve of him. It was all he would be taking with him in the end anyway.

Sherlock lay back, enjoying the feeling of being bathed. John sat on the edge of the tub and pulled one of Sherlock’s legs up out of the water and was slowly washing it. Sherlock watched him work and noted a small sadness in his features. It was as if John were saying goodbye to him, piece by piece, inch of flesh by inch of flesh. Sherlock said nothing. He just let John work. Sherlock was sure he had the proper solution, but it wasn’t one that John had wanted for him. 

The hot tap was still running, filling the tub and the movement of the water was almost over Sherlock’s hardness. He ached to touch himself, but was under no direct orders to do so. Besides, John might want to give him a wank as he washed his body. Sherlock hoped he would. His dick was throbbing and aching for friction. Please captain… take care of your soldier… please…

Much to Sherlock’s dismay, John skipped past Sherlock’s dick and moved to his abdomen. He ran the sponge and his hands over Sherlock’s stomach and chest, slowly caressing each and every muscle, absorbing all the information his hands could give him about the texture and feel of Sherlock’s body.

John reached across the tub and shut off the hot tap. “Lean forward, soldier,” John commanded. John washed Sherlock’s back, moving slowly across his shoulders, tracing the curve of his spine downward and moving along the top of his hips. The sponge came up one side of Sherlock’s ribs and then down the other.

Everything was done so slowly as to be called reverent. John was worshipping Sherlock. He was going to miss him so fucking much. John got a pain in the pit of his stomach at the thought and had to take a deep breath to avoid sobbing out loud. Fortunately, Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, otherwise John might have lost it completely.

“There,” said John finally. He had Sherlock lean back and with a wet flannel wiped away all traces of his precum from Sherlock’s face. Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on John’s touch as he gently held his head and wiped around his mouth, across his closed eyes, over his forehead and over each cheekbone in turn. Sherlock’s skin glowed with the effects of the hot steamy water. John took a moment to stare at him in breathless awe. He was so fucking gorgeous… and so trusting… it was heartbreaking.

“Over you go, Sherlock,” said John softly. Sherlock opened his eyes and saw John staring down at him with such tenderness in his eyes. Sherlock leaned up toward John for a kiss. The touch was soft, light, their lips and tongues barely touching each other. If either of their cocks had lost their firmness, it was regained in this kiss: sad, sweet, gentle… it was an exact representation of their love in physical form.

Both men stared at each other when the kiss was over, memorizing each other’s faces. After a moment or two, Sherlock turned over on all fours, his knees protected by the thick plastic bath cushion that ran along the bottom of the tub, and John went to get the lube and condoms. Sherlock’s arse was above the water level in the extra-deep soaking tub, his erect cock surrounded by water. His balls just cut the surface. It was such a perfect picture; John had to stop a moment to admire it. John felt his cock fill even more at the sight.

John rolled on a condom and lubed up his hand. He kissed Sherlock’s arse as he slowly circled his anus with his finger. “You want it, don’t you, Sherlock?” John asked.

“Yes, captain,” said Sherlock, “Thank you, captain.” John put his lubed finger inside Sherlock slowly. He was so fucking tight… Jesus…

Sherlock pushed back against John’s hand and relaxed as best he could. He loved this bit: being teased open little by little until that big hard thick cock pushed into him. Sherlock hummed.

John put in a second finger… and then a third. Once again, Sherlock pushed back against his hand, aching for a deep touch. John found his prostate and began to stroke it gently. Sherlock swayed in the water with the rhythm of the stroke, gasping and letting out all kinds of lascivious noises.

The water began to slosh a bit and John reached over with his free hand to unplug the tub. When some of the water drained, John got in the tub, causing the level to rise back a bit. Sherlock’s cock tip was just brushing the surface of the water and the sensation was dizzying. He looked back and saw John positioning himself. He faced forward once again and could feel John’s tip at his entrance… and then John seemed to stop. Sherlock looked back again.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” said John. His eyes were grave and sweet and Sherlock’s heart broke a little at the man’s underlying sadness. Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but John put his hand up. “It’s fine, Sherlock,” he said. “I just want you to enjoy this.”

“I always do, John,” said Sherlock. “You always feel so good inside me.”

John felt heat spread to his already aching groin at those words and he pushed steadily into Sherlock until he was balls-deep in the student. So… warm… so tight…. Shit…. Ah!

John rested inside Sherlock, nestled in his heat, and waited for Sherlock to adjust. John caressed Sherlock’s back and buttocks as he waited, still attempting to memorize every nuance of the man’s skin. He was a goddamn alabaster god.

“Captain,” said Sherlock. He was aching for John to move. John could tell by the sound of his voice.

“Steady on, soldier,” said John, “You need to learn patience. Discipline.”

“Then teach me, captain,” said Sherlock. “Teach me to obey your commands. I want to learn.”

“A test of discipline then,” said John, “Force yourself to be still. To have discipline, you really must learn to control your body, despite what is happening to it. Now… let’s try… this…” and here, John pulled out almost completely from Sherlock and then, in one smooth firm motion, placed himself all the way back in. “Good boy!” said John, “You didn’t move a bit. Excellent control.”

“You’re proud of me, captain?” asked Sherlock, panting. That took one hell of an effort.

“Absolutely,” said John, stroking Sherlock’s backside soothingly, “Do you want more?”

“Yes, captain,” said Sherlock. It was all he could do to get through that first thrust and hold still. He was sure his resolve would break soon, but he didn’t want this to end. He wanted John to fuck him as slowly as he pleased.

John slowly withdrew from Sherlock again and re-entered him even more slowly than before. It was torture for John as well. All he wanted to do was to fuck Sherlock through the damn bathtub. And the sight that greeted his eyes with every thrust was obscene and more than a little arousing.

Sherlock surprised himself by not moving during this thrust either. He felt such pride at being a good soldier for his captain. He smiled with satisfaction as he felt John slide home within him.

“Oh Sherlock… you are so fucking tight,” said John, “So good and tight for your captain.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sherlock, “I always want to please my captain; to make him want to fuck me, to make him want to cum for me.”

“Your captain always wants to fuck you, soldier,” said John. Unable to resist, John began to undulate his hips in a circular motion. He felt the slick wetness of his connection with Sherlock. He couldn’t wait to hear that wetness and the slap slap slap of flesh against flesh as Sherlock got a proper pounding. But first…

“One more slow stroke, I think, soldier,” said John as he pulled out and re-entered slowly.

Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He pushed back ever so slightly against John’s thrust.

John’s open hand came down on Sherlock’s left buttock, “No, Sherlock,” said John as he rubbed where he had struck, “Bad soldier. Your captain is not pleased.”

“Apologies, captain,” said Sherlock pathetically, “It’s just that your cock feels so fucking good. I need it inside me. I- I can’t help myself.”

“If you want my cock so damn badly, then prove it,” said John.

“Tell me how, captain,” said Sherlock.

John wrapped his arm around Sherlock and guided his torso upward, still keeping John’s cock inside him. John sat back, unfolding one leg at a time, until he was seated in the tub with Sherlock impaled on his dick above him. “Pound yourself on me,” ordered John.

Sherlock wiggled down on John’s dick with pleasure. Grabbing the sides of the tub, bracing himself with his feet, steam coming off his body, hard cock in the air, Sherlock began to fuck his beautiful captain.

John held Sherlock’s hips, never letting him pull himself up so much as to come off of his dick, and watched his cock disappear inside Sherlock over and over and over… The water pooled around and slapped about as John’s dick was mostly submerged, adding to the sensation of the fuck.

“Oh God, Sherlock,” said John, “You really do want my cock, don’t you? You are such a filthy boy. Oh Jesus… so fucking good. That’s it… fuck your captain… fuck yourself on his hard prick… you want it so damn badly, don’t you, slut? That’s it… fuck my prick…”

“I want to come for you, captain…,” said Sherlock, panting with his efforts, “I need to cum… please captain… take care of your soldier… I need you… please…”

John jerked his hips up in rhythm with Sherlock’s fuck and these words: “I… thought… I… told… you… that… you … were… never… to… give… me… orders!”

The sloshing of the water was tremendous and made the violence of their coupling all the more evident and arousing.

“Oh God…captain!” exclaimed Sherlock. John didn’t care if they were loud. Sherlock could cry out his name at the top of his lungs. He was going to be sacked anyway. What difference would it make?

“More… more… please… oh please fuck me harder…,” said Sherlock.

John grunted with his effort and moved his hands so that he could spread Sherlock’s arse cheeks wider apart, allowing for deeper contact. It worked. Sherlock was reduced to incoherent moans as John pushed himself upward into Sherlock’s downward thrusts, bracing his knees against the side of the tub and pushing his shoulders against the end of it for purchase, attempting to strike his prostate with every push.

This was fucking at its most pure and raw. They weren’t human anymore; they were animals, grunting and thrusting in the cooling water, barely noticing the mess the water was making on the floor when the occasional splash would make it over the edge.

“God damn it, Sherlock!” shouted John, his orgasm building to its climax as he thrust home again and again into this beautiful man. “Oh Jesus…. FUCK!... Ah!... Ah!... yes… shit… yes, Sherlock! Fuck!” John burst apart inside of Sherlock and leaned in hard to push all of his seed deep inside him. John could feel the cum gathering in thick bursts at the head of the condom, warm, wet, and sticky.

Sherlock sunk back down against John’s exhausted prick and took John’s left hand by the wrist, “Please,” was all he said as he guided John’s hand to his neglected cock. John jerked him off languidly, taking his time. With pleasure, John watched the debauched expression on Sherlock’s face as Sherlock leaned back against John’s body and said wantonly: “Yes my captain… you love me… you… only you, John… oh God… fuck! So good, John… please… ah! More! More! Tighter…You feel so fucking good inside me… shit… I’m all yours, John… always… all yours… I want to cum for you…”

“You do, don’t you, you filthy boy,” said John. “You want to cum for me? Then cum all over my hand. Go on, soldier. That’s a direct order. You cum for me. You filthy slut. You have to have it, don’t you?” John kissed at the curve where Sherlock’s chest meets his shoulder and continued to pull at Sherlock’s hard shaft.

“You want me to fill you up with cum every fucking second of every fucking day, don’t you?” John asked.

“Yes, my captain,” panted Sherlock.

“You want to make me hard and then suck me off, don’t you?”

“Yes, captain. Always.”

“You want to explode all over my hand right now, don’t you?”

“Yes, captain… please, captain.”

“You filthy beggar. Fuck my hand, you slut. Go on. Fuck it.”

Sherlock brought his hips up, coming up John’s shaft in order to fuck John’s fist. As he came back, John realized that he was getting hard again… Jesus, that must be a record recovery time! Then again, fucking Sherlock Holmes was like nothing else.

Soon, Sherlock was fucking himself with John’s fist and getting fucked by John all over again. It was too much. Both sensations at once caused Sherlock to lose his rhythm and his mind. He bucked wildly between the two, his legs aching and complaining with his efforts. He needed to cum and John’s words put him over the edge: “Oh Sherlock… I’m hard again… and… it’s… all… your… fault! Fuck me, you slut! Ah! Ah! AH!”

“Fucking Christ!” exclaimed Sherlock, “So good… so fucking good… that’s it… oh my captain… my John… I… God, I…. Oh! That’s it… fuck! Oh… oh…. Oh! OH! Yes YES! John! JOHN! Fuck! Ah! Shit!.... John! John! John! John! JohnJohnJohnJohn….” Sherlock spurted thick ropes of cum all over John’s hand as John thrust up into Sherlock attempting to scratch his own itch. As he heard Sherlock cum, he thrust deeper inside the man, hitting his prostate with each stroke, magnifying the experience for him.

Sherlock pulled off of John’s cock and got on all fours in the water. “Cum on me, John,” said Sherlock, “Please. Cum all over my arse… please, John.”

John took the condom off and wanked himself to the sight of Sherlock’s arse in the air. Between the filthy nature of the act and Sherlock’s begging for it, John’s orgasm wasn’t far off. He came quickly, the volume of his cum reduced, but it was enough to stand out against Sherlock’s arse cheeks, dripping down and coating his skin.

John wiped the tip of his cock against Sherlock’s crack to clean it off and then rubbed his semen all over Sherlock’s perfectly turned arse as Sherlock moaned at the sensation. He was just fucking beautiful like this.

And then it struck John that this was it. It was over.

Reverently, John kissed the base of Sherlock’s spine and they got out of the tub. Sherlock and he toweled off and got into bed. If they were going to come to his rooms in order to sack John, he was going to give the administration proof positive that he deserved it.

Sherlock curled up on John’s chest and allowed sleep to take him. John stroked his back gently, thrilling at the soapy scent of a well-fucked Sherlock. The late afternoon sun came through the window and John didn’t care about anything anymore. He was just happy to be exactly where he was, where he belonged: right here with Sherlock Holmes.

 

~080~

 

Mike Stamford sat at his desk in his rooms composing the formal letter that was necessary to explain to John his reasons for the president seeing fit to sack him. As the late afternoon sun shone on his face, he grimaced at the beginning line that he had managed to write:

‘This letter is to inform you of your official dismissal from this university.’

It was not a letter he enjoyed writing, but he had no choice. It was either John’s job, or both Mike and John would be sacked. Rules were rules, the president had said. As the cursor blinked at him awaiting his next sentence of damnation, Mike leaned back in his chair and looked up at the window beyond his computer screen. It was a lovely day; too nice a day to be ruining a chap’s budding teaching career. Damn.

He didn’t hear the window pane glass break. He didn’t hear anything, actually. He had a wistful look on his face when the bullet struck him right between his eyes, a clean shot.

Mike Stamford was killed instantly.


	7. Crime and punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is in trouble. Can Sherlock help?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE BE AWARE: I have NO knowledge of firearms. I have no knowledge of ballistics or crime scene crap. If you're reading this story for that, my apologies. I've tried to make it all hang together as best I could.
> 
> I have never seen a rifle. I have, however, seen a dick or two. That's where you can rely on me. NOT for guns. Sorry.
> 
> Rifle reference: http://precisionriflesales.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/300_ultra_2-300x92.jpg

“Captain John Watson?” said Detective Inspector Lestrade.

John looked at all the people outside his door with a furrowed brow. He was expecting an administrator and some campus police that late morning, not the actual police. He knew he was sacked, but he didn’t think the university would take it to such an extreme.

“Yes,” he answered.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with us,” said Lestrade somberly.

“Listen,” said John, “I’m not yet packed up properly. May I gather a few things? Just an overnight bag or something. I’ll send for the rest at a later time. My friend Mike Stamford can see that it’s all sorted.”

“That’s exactly why we’re here, Captain,” said Lestrade, giving his sergeant a sideways look. “Obviously you haven’t heard.”

“Heard what?” asked John.

“Your friend Professor Stamford was found shot dead in his rooms this morning,” said Lestrade.

John’s jaw dropped. After a moment, he asked, “Mike? What? Who-- who would do something like that?”

“So far,” said Lestrade, “you’re our best suspect.” There was no humor in his voice and John’s stomach churned at the thought that he could be mixed up in a murder.

“I—Me? What…? What are you talking about? Why would I kill Mike?” said John, his voice getting louder and louder the more the panic in him grew.

“We can talk all about that,” said Lestrade calmly, “once we’re at the Yard. Now, if you please, Captain Watson. Come with us.”

John blinked at Lestrade, mystified that he would suspect him in murdering anyone. He went quietly with the detective, his sergeant and the two uniformed officers. He wasn’t under arrest. He was just being taken in for questioning. Surely, that was a good sign. Right?

 

~080~

 

John accepted the cup of tea with a smile of thanks and faced DI Lestrade over the interrogation table. Their conversation was being recorded. The DI was kind enough to tell him when Mike died: late afternoon yesterday. John was with Sherlock during that time. That gave John an alibi for the time of the murder (Jesus… murder!), but John had to make a decision: did he want to bring Sherlock’s name into this mess?

If he mentioned Sherlock and gave him as an alibi, Sherlock would definitely be expelled and his personal reputation would be ruined. John couldn’t stand the idea of that happening. Sherlock wouldn’t care either way, but John was pretty sure he’d want his lover out of jail and if mentioning him as an alibi did the trick, well then…

If he didn’t mention Sherlock, he’d have to rely on the investigative team coming up with evidence that proved him to be innocent. That was a gamble. John thought about going to jail for a murder he didn’t commit. He thought about the publicity and the shame it would bring on the university and the RAMC. Was one boy’s future worth him losing his own?

Perhaps he could tell the DI about his alibi without mentioning names? Is that possible? Oh dear God… what to do, what to do… John thought he might need a solicitor. But if he asked for one, that would just look incriminating. Wouldn’t it?

Jesus… what do I do?

Lestrade was talking. John focused in on the end of his sentence: “…can you tell us more about that?”

“What?” said John, a bit embarrassed by missing the question. He felt so scatterbrained right now. It was hard to focus. “What was the question? I’m sorry.”

Lestrade’s eyes glazed over for a fraction of a second in his incredulity. He took a weary breath and asked again: “We discovered Professor Stamford’s laptop open to write a letter addressed to you. He had only typed out the first line. It read: ‘This letter is to inform you formally of your dismissal from this university.’ Can you tell us more about that?”

John cleared his throat. “I was about to be sacked.”

“On what grounds?” said Lestrade.

“Misconduct,” said John, hoping that would be enough to placate the detective.

“Got involved with one of your students, did you?” asked Lestrade. His face became more serious. He probably suspected John of being a rapist as well as a murderer now. Jesus shit.

“Y-yes,” said John, clearing his throat again, “I’m afraid so. I made a bad decision. But I knew the consequences. I was expecting the sacking. That’s why I thought you turned up. To kick me off of campus.”

“I see,” said Lestrade, “And that’s what the university does, does it? They send in the police?”

“I didn’t know,” said John, “It was the first time I’d ever worked at a university. I had no idea of the procedures. Honestly, I was expecting campus police. But I really didn’t know.”

“And the student you were involved with: just a one-time thing? Or ongoing?” asked Lestrade.

“I’d really rather leave the student out of this,” said John, “They’ll be going through enough with my arrest and all.”

Lestrade decided to try a slightly different tack. He asked: “Can you account for your whereabouts yesterday afternoon? Take me through the day.”

“I got up, bathed, dressed and went out to breakfast at about nine o’clock in the morning. I kept my office hours for the two hours prior to my one o’clock class, taught my class, and then went back to my rooms,” said John, praying that Lestrade wouldn’t ask more of him.

“And that’s all?” said Lestrade. “Can anyone account for where you were at about, say, two o’clock?”

“Yes,” said John, “But as I said, I’d like to keep the student out of it.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “So you have an alibi for the time of the murder.” John nodded. “But you’re not going to give me her name because you want to protect her.’

“Exactly,” said John.

“What if I can promise that her name won’t come up in the inquest?” asked Lestrade.

“Can you promise me that?” asked John.

Lestrade gave him a small smile. “I can only try,” he said.

“I’m afraid that’s just not good enough,” said John and he leaned back, crossing his arms.

Lestrade watched John carefully. He saw a nervous man, but not a murderer. It was sad that he was playing his alibi so close to the vest. It would exonerate him. He was really ready to fall on his sword for this person. Amazing.

Either that, or the alibi is a load of horseshit. It’d be a damn shame if this Captain Watson was the one who done it. It always rubbed Lestrade wrong when a military man is found guilty of a crime. Just seemed unpatriotic somehow.

“Alright then,” said Lestrade, “Have it your way. We’re searching your premises now. If we come up clean, you’ll be released by morning. Until then, sit tight. Drink your tea.”

 

~080~

 

Sherlock had left John and gone to his class early that next morning. Lord knows why. Sherlock supposed he didn’t want to be there when John was escorted off campus. John wouldn’t have wanted him to be there for that anyway.

In the end, it was a good thing: the news of the murder of Professor Mike Stamford was spreading like wildfire all over campus.

Sherlock stood outside Professor Stamford’s rooms and looked at the broken window. Most of the glass was completely intact. He looked behind him across the small courtyard at the roof of the science building and the taller administrative building behind it. The bullet had come from that direction, no doubt. He saw a few crime scene personnel inspecting the science building roof. Sherlock’s eyes scanned the building upward and downward, searching.

This feeling was interesting. For the first time in his uni career, he wasn’t bored out of his mind. He knew that he always liked puzzles, but this kind of puzzle was thrilling. A grin slowly spread across his face. He looked up at the broken window once more. He had to see that glass for himself. He had to be certain.

How was he going to get into a crime scene? He couldn’t just walk in. That was obvious. Perhaps he could just ask the lead detective on the case? The worst he could say was no. Sherlock planned to tell him to regard the bevel of the glass where the bullet entered the room. But then… surely they would think of such a thing. Wouldn’t they? 

Oh this was frustrating. He wanted to get in there! Get his hands on the evidence! Scan over witness accounts – not that they would mean much, but who’s to say they didn’t all hold a trace of something in common? Where was the goddamned lead detective?

Sherlock decided to watch to see if they took the pane of glass with them to the Yard. With it in place, he could answer his own curiosity. Without it, he would have to rely on police investigation and speculation, and let’s face it: that was just a discouraging prospect.

After two hours the police cleared out, leaving the glass in place. Why? Surely, that’s part of the evidence?! The crime scene leader must be a complete idiot. Ah well… all the better for Sherlock. He knew he could go back there tonight and take a peek at the glass himself now. In a way, the crime scene leader being a total idiot was a good omen for Sherlock.

He couldn’t wait to tell John all about it.

But of course, John already knew! He had to have. Unless… he was kicked off campus before he had a chance to see all of this. Sherlock’s heart sank. John was gone. This whole morning and afternoon gone by and he didn’t think about John leaving… not once! How could he have done such a thing? How could he have gotten so distracted?

Sure, a murder was interesting, but was it really more interesting than having a man who gave a damn about him? Was it really better to look at a goddamned piece of glass than to bear witness to the last time he would probably see the love of his life? Jesus Christ. What the hell is wrong with you, Sherlock Holmes?

Sherlock passed the faculty residence building where John lived. The windows were dark. Sherlock could detect no movement. He snuck into the building by catching the security door before it shut behind someone who was exiting. He went to John’s rooms in time to see a uniformed officer standing outside the door. He was taping the door shut, marking it as a crime scene. What the hell was going on here?

Sherlock left the building and tried calling John on his mobile. No answer. Sherlock didn’t leave a message.

John was gone. Stamford murdered. Sherlock’s world tilted on its axis. This would not do. He had to fix this. He had to find John.

Oh…

OH!

They arrested John. For Stamford’s murder. But that’s just stupid! Stamford was murdered when John and he… And John would never grass on Sherlock. John was willing to go to jail to save Sherlock’s reputation.

Unless… were they waiting at Sherlock’s rooms to talk to him?

Sherlock raced back to his dormitory. There was no sign that anyone had been there. Nothing was touched. That means… John didn’t tell them about him. John was keeping him secret to save him. Stupid sentimental fool… how could he care so much? John’s words came back to him: ‘Why don’t you care at all?’

I don’t deserve him…

Sherlock collapsed on his bed and cried.

 

~080~

 

“Someone to see you, sir,” said the sergeant. It was late. Lestrade has just managed to swallow the last of his only meal of the day (pastrami on rye) and motioned with his hand for whoever it was to come in.

The man that swept in was an imposing figure in his long black coat with the red buttonhole. He stood opposite Lestrade and observed him over his nose. Wife cheating on him with yoga instructor… attending marriage counseling… small dog owner… lives in separate apartment… dedicated officer…

“Who are you, then?” said Lestrade, wiping his hands on a napkin.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” said Sherlock, “I have some pertinent information for you about the Stamford case.”

“Do you, now?” said Lestrade, motioning to a chair. Sherlock fell into it, slouching. “And what would you know about the murder?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched in a momentary grin. “Captain John Watson is innocent.”

Lestrade shook his head. “I know he is. Trouble is, I’ve got no just cause to let him go. We found a gun in his rooms on campus and with the right person behind the trigger -- like an army veteran – well… It just doesn’t look good for Captain Watson, I’m afraid.”

“You know he’s innocent?” said Sherlock.

“He’s got an alibi,” said Lestrade.

“But he won’t reveal who the alibi is,” said Sherlock. Lestrade nodded. “Which is why you’re still holding him. Let me guess: it’s a student.”

“Yes,” said Lestrade, “Very good, Mr. eh… Holmes. Now would you mind telling me who in hell you are?”

“I’m John Watson’s alibi,” said Sherlock.

“Wait,” said Lestrade, “What? You’re the alibi? So John is…”

“Gay,” said Sherlock, “Yes, he is. And so am I. Problem?”

“N-no,” said Lestrade. He took a moment to process this information and shrugged. “No problem at all. So… you’re his lover, then?”

“Just so,” said Sherlock.

“And on the date of the murder, you two were…”

“Shagging like marmosets in heat, detective inspector.”

“I see,” said Lestrade. “Would you mind making an official statement in that regard?”

“Not at all,” said Sherlock, “but before I do, I want to make it clear to you that I was only shagging him for a better grade. I seduced John Watson. It was me.”

“Really?” said Lestrade. Why would Sherlock say such a thing to him? Why would a student who was shagging their teacher for grades come forward and confess to being their alibi? Why would they care? Curious. “Alright then, Mr. Holmes. Consider it duly noted.”

“Thank you, detective inspector,” said Sherlock and he stood up, seeming to loom over Lestrade’s desk. It was strewn with all the crime scene photos from the Stamford case. “You should sack your lead crime scene investigator.”

“Why?” said Lestrade, looking from Sherlock’s face to the photos and back again.

“Because he missed taking the glass from the frame of the window,” said Sherlock. “And, according to that report – which is wrong – he claims the bullet was shot from the top of the science building when it wasn’t.”

“What the hell?” said Lestrade, “How do you know where the bullet was shot from?”

“I’ve made an extensive study of forensic science since before I came to this university. I’ve also studied ballistics. And glass fragments. Currently I’m preparing a treatise on various different types of tobacco ash, but that is no matter,” said Sherlock, “Suffice to say, I took the liberty of examining that glass pane and from it I was able to determine, angle of trajectory, speed of bullet, type of bullet, and range of bullet. Do you want to know what I found?”

Lestrade had met some crime groupies in his life, but nothing like the man that was standing before him right now. This guy was unbelievable. “What do you mean ‘you took the liberty of examining the glass pane’? If my man left it in the window, do you mean to tell me that you broke into a crime scene and disturbed the evidence?” Lestrade was on the verge of arresting Sherlock on the spot.

“Don’t be an idiot, inspector,” said Sherlock with a rather annoyed look. “Of course I didn’t.”

“Then how…” began Lestrade.

“Windows have more than one side, inspector,” said Sherlock, his tone slightly exasperated.

“His rooms were on the second floor,” said Lestrade.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “And the campus grounds crew don’t lock up their ladders very well.”

Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Sherlock was suddenly reminded of John and a pain ran through his chest.

“May I see him?” said Sherlock.

“What? Oh… I suppose,” said Lestrade, “But tell me first what you think about the…angle of trajectory, was it?

“I am only a rank amateur,” said Sherlock without a trace of modesty, “but from what I can tell, the gun you’re looking for is a high-powered long-range rifle, not a soldier’s sidearm, which is the gun you have found in John’s rooms. You’re looking for someone with experience, certainly, but you aren’t looking for a common soldier. You are looking for a sniper, or better yet, someone with hunting experience. And you are looking for someone who is a crack shot too, as the bullet came from the administration building on the other side of the science building, easily adding an additional three hundred yards to the distance of the bullet, hence my being very specific that this is a ‘high-powered’ long-range rifle, most likely with a scope.”

Lestrade blinked at Sherlock. He looked at the photos again. There was one picture of the bullet hole that showed the science building beyond the small courtyard. The edge of the roof aligned perfectly with a window in the administration building. Astounding… simply astounding. Lestrade looked up at Sherlock and said: “If this checks out, I’ll be in touch, Mr. Holmes. Until then, I’m going to have to ask you to not travel very far from campus.”

“I am at your disposal,” said Sherlock. He was really enjoying this.

“And I would like you here at eight o’clock sharp for a formal statement,” said Lestrade.

“I’ll be happy to give you one now, detective inspector,” said Sherlock. He really wanted John out of jail as soon as possible. The sooner John was safe in his arms, the better.

“And you were just sleeping with him for a better grade, huh?” asked Lestrade.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “Why do you ask?”

“Because it’s a load of horseshit,” said Lestrade. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t come down to Scotland Yard of your own free will at ten o’clock at night just to tell me all about how Captain Watson was innocent if you were just shagging him for grades.”

Sherlock paled a bit at this. Lestrade continued: “You love the guy, don’t you?”

Sherlock blinked at Lestrade. “I’ll see you in the morning, detective inspector,” he said and swept out of Lestrade’s offices, his coat flapping behind him, and Lestrade laughing out loud and long in his wake.

 

~080~

 

The metal hatch clanged open, stirring John from his daydreaming. He looked up to see Lestrade’s face in the opening.

“Just had a conversation with your boyfriend, Captain,” said Lestrade. John’s face went white as a sheet. “He said to be sure and tell everyone involved that he was only shagging you for the grade, that he seduced you.”

“He what?” said John. “But that’s not true—“

“Jesus,” said Lestrade, “You love him too.”

“What?” said John.

“Have you boys not told each other that you love each other?” said Lestrade, “or am I missing something?”

“Detective inspector,” said John, “that’s really none of your business.” He paused, then added: “He said he loved me? Out loud?”

Lestrade restrained a chuckle. “And I thought my wife and I didn’t communicate very well. No, Captain, he didn’t say it out loud. But no man who’s ‘just shagging a man for grades’ shows up at my door as that man’s alibi at ten o’clock at night. Call it a copper’s instinct.”

“Jesus,” said John and he stared at the floor in shock. Sherlock really did love him. He was willing to protect John’s reputation by telling everyone that he seduced John for a better grade. But that would destroy Sherlock – not that Sherlock cared.

“Anyway, he’s going to come in tomorrow to make a formal statement,” said Lestrade. “You’ll be released afterward on your own recognizance. We may still need you to answer some more questions. Just thought I’d let you know.”

“Yeah,” said John slowly, “Thanks, detective inspector.” Lestrade attempted to slam the hatch door home and John cried out, “Wait!” Lestrade looked at him curiously. “What will happen to Sherlock if it gets out that he’s seduced me for grades? I mean, we both know it’s a lie, but we can’t stop the rumor mill, can we?”

“I shouldn’t think that would be my problem, Captain,” said Lestrade.

“Please,” said John. “He’s too… “

He’s too what? Important? Young? Foolish?

John looked at Lestrade with pleading eyes. “He’s my only friend in London. He’s all I’ve got. Please protect him.”

Lestrade sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”

 

~080~

 

John lay back on his cot in the cell and thought about Sherlock. He wanted to see Sherlock so badly. He closed his eyes and pictured that beautiful face, long, angular, almond-shaped eyes that contained vast swirling colors and so much… love. Yes, it was love. John wondered at how he could have missed it.

“You love me?” Sherlock had asked… Yes, yes I do, Sherlock… God help me…

John felt his cock move. It was as good as he was going to get in a jail cell, so he reached down and palmed his building erection. He didn’t imagine Sherlock in the cell with him; that would be too depressing. He didn’t imagine them anywhere.

It was a bed… lost in a room… white sheets… Sherlock’s soft moans as John kissed his neck. Yes… that was perfect. Totally removed from humanity and in a world all their own. So good…

John could feel Sherlock’s warmth as he kissed down his back, each vertebra getting its own special moment of attention. He kissed down his buttock and along each thigh, letting each kiss linger… slowly, deliberately, achingly sweet, tasting his precious student… taking in every inch of his skin, absorbing the feel of him… so good… so fucking good… Oh, Sherlock…

John unzipped his trousers, moved his pants aside and pulled his erect cock out. It was thick and heavy and already dripping. Jesus… Sherlock… what you can do to me. He used his precum as lubrication and began to pump his cock slowly, in time to the rhythm of the slow fuck he was giving Sherlock in his mind’s eye.

You like that, don’t you, my dirty boy… That’s it… take me all the way in… every inch… ah!

John’s rhythm increased. Between the vivid fantasy and the reality of being caught wanking off in a jail cell, he was in a bit of a rush to get to the good bit. He could see Sherlock’s back arch when he hit his prostate over and over and over… fuck.

That’s it, you filthy boy… you slut… take it all… come on…. You want me to come don’t you?

‘Yes, captain… please, captain… my captain…’

He pictured coming into Sherlock as he had done time and time before. It was glorious, but that’s not what John wanted from this fantasy.

Good soldier… now… take… this!

He flipped Sherlock over, eyeing the man’s neglected cock. John wet two of his fingers and slowly slid them into his hole. Sherlock had never fucked him, but, Jesus Christ, if he got John out of this mess by sacrificing his future and lying to everyone… Sherlock deserved to fuck his captain.

He pictured himself straddling the man, a look of amazement on Sherlock’s features as he slowly sank down onto his dick. Jesus! The pressure from it was almost overwhelming. John knew that Sherlock was long and his dick would feel so fucking good. He saw himself riding Sherlock as Sherlock’s eyes glazed over with lust, his mouth (that mouth!) slack with want, his breath panting as he thrust upward into John. 

Come for me, you fucker… come for your captain… that’s… an… order!

His fingers bumping his prostate, John began to thrust into his fist with abandon, all sense of rhythm gone. A wave of orgasm came over him. As he tipped over the edge, he stifled his cry as best he could.

Jesus Christ… oh God, Sherlock…Yes! YES! I am yours… always… always, my love… my own… shit…. Yes… yes… yes… Sherlock…

 

~080~

 

“And I don’t suppose you can prove that the two of you were together at that time?” said Lestrade. “I mean, were there any witnesses to the two of you entering or leaving the rooms you were in?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Sherlock, “Not at that time of day.”

“Another time, then,” said Lestrade.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, ”It was that morning that everything was set in motion for John to get sacked. It was later that afternoon that Stamford was killed.”

“And how did you find out that Stamford was getting John sacked?” said Lestrade.

“I have informants all over campus, detective inspector,” said Sherlock, “People who notice things out of the ordinary and report to me about it.”

“I see,” said Lestrade. “And your informants were letting you know all about strange things dealing with Professor Stamford, even though they had no idea that it actually had anything to do with you.”

“On the contrary, detective inspector,” said Sherlock, “they knew exactly on whom I was seeking information. Professor Stamford had asked me to leave the university because he suspected that I was having a relationship with Captain Watson. He assumed – correctly – that I was seducing Captain Watson for better grades and was attempting to protect his friend’s career as an instructor. He was a good and dedicated friend to Captain Watson. The Captain had no reason to take his life.”

“So because of this confrontation with Stamford,” said Lestrade, “you were having him watched? Tailed? All over campus?”

“In a word: yes,” said Sherlock.

“Now why shouldn’t I just lock you up for killing Stamford yourself?” said Lestrade, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. “I mean, you had motive.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “but you forget: Captain Watson is my alibi. And as he’s just been exonerated… well… he’s a pretty reliable alibi, now isn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Lestrade, relief flooding his system. The captain would not be pleased if Sherlock wound up in jail in his stead. For some reason, Lestrade felt the need to take care of these two idiots. Oh Jesus… he was getting too old for this job.

“Alright then,” said Lestrade into the recorder at his side, “this concludes the interview with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Lewis, witnessing.” He pressed the stop button, looked back at Lewis and nodded. Sergeant Lewis left the room.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock with grave eyes. “I’m not going to pretend that you weren’t right in every way about the bullet or the gun used. Ballistics report came back to a .300 Remington Ultra Magnum. We located markings of a rifle stand in one of the windows of the administrative building, so you were right about the trajectory. But whoever made that shot had to have military or hunting experience.”

“Inspector,” said Sherlock, “are you trying to involve me in this case?”

“Well,” said Lestrade, “you’re obviously intelligent and you’ve been cleared as a suspect. I’d have to be a pretty big fool to not ask your opinion on this. As I said, you’ve been right so far.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair and stared at the policeman. “And you’ll be releasing John today, won’t you?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes,” said Lestrade slowly, his curiosity building. “Why?”

“Then I don’t see why I should assist you any further,” said Sherlock. “It’s not my problem any longer, detective inspector.”

“So you’re not the least bit curious to find the killer?” said Lestrade, his gut instinct leading him in the question. He knew Sherlock enjoyed this work. He’d be a hell of a detective inspector himself, if he would sit for the police exams and endure the academy training. It was too much to hope that Sherlock would be the type of man to do it, however. Lestrade could never see him in a uniform.

Sherlock stared at Lestrade for a few minutes, arms crossed, hands gripping his elbows. Wordlessly, Lestrade opened the file that had been sitting under his hands during the interview, spun it around and pushed it toward Sherlock. “I’m just going to pop out for a coffee. I’ll just leave this here then, shall I?” And with that, Lestrade left the room.

Sherlock didn’t mean to look. He really didn’t. But words jumped out at him from the file. Words like: obsessive, malicious, cold-blooded, psychopathic… It was a personal profile of what the killer would be like, a behavioral analysis. Sherlock looked closely at the list and narrowed his eyes. There was something there that rang true for him. Something he remembered… a motive… a reason to kill Mike Stamford.

Sherlock sat up abruptly, got up, and left the room. He knew who had shot Mike Stamford.

Now he just needed to prove it.


	8. New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John faces his future. And it looks pretty damn bleak.

“But it won’t work without you, John,” said Sherlock. He watched helplessly as John packed up his things into boxes and suitcases. He didn't have many things, but what he did have, he cared for carefully; his behavior was indicative of a life lived on the move, the military mentality.

“My answer is no,” said John as he took down his parade hat from the top of the wardrobe, inspecting it for dust and dirt. Deciding that it passed muster, he carefully packed it upside-down in his suitcase, using socks to stuff it so that it wouldn't collapse or get crushed during travel. He was leaving campus to get out of the way of the maelstrom that was surely headed for the university in the wake of the murder of Mike Stamford. Thanks to Sherlock’s testimony, he was a free man and the police were investigating in a different direction.

Greg Lestrade had assured John that he had a brilliant idea for handling the ‘Sherlock Situation’. Sherlock would have it that the world think John was seduced by his student, so that John saves face and Sherlock gets expelled. The problem was, John was not going to allow Sherlock to do that. And Lestrade had an idea… God bless Detective Inspector Lestrade.

“But I thought Mike was your friend,” said Sherlock, truly confused and more than a little mystified by John’s abrupt conversation and lack of eye contact.

“Mike was my friend, Sherlock,” said John, “but I can’t do what you’re asking me. That’s not me anymore. I’m a guy who just wants a little peace and quiet. No stress, no bother, just a warm place to sleep, a cup of tea and a fire. It’s all I want. I need to get the hell away from this place.”

“And what happens to me?” said Sherlock. John’s eyes finally met Sherlock’s at this.

“You’re coming with me, obviously,” said John. 

Sherlock let out a huff of derision. “You're joking.”

“No,” said John, "I'm not joking. I swear, I’ll take care of you. You’ll just go to another school and keep your head down and your nose clean. No need to live on campus. All we need is a small flat… It’ll be fine.”

“On your Army pension?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes,” said John.

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. “I’m sorry,” said Sherlock, “Who are you and what have you done with my captain?”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” exclaimed John. “ Aren't you sick of it all?” Sherlock was too stunned by John’s outburst to reply. The agitated soldier continued: “I had a lot of time alone to think about us, about my future, about your future, about what I really wanted from my life – for us.” Sherlock watched John carefully as the man slowly crumbled in front of him. “I hate that I was so damned unhappy. I hate feeling useless. But then there was you. I was so alone… and you… Someone needs to look after you. You really shouldn't be on your own. And I kn-- I know… I can’t live without you.” John looked at him forlornly. “Please come with me, Sherlock. It won’t be much of a life, but it’ll be the best chance I can give you toward your future.”

Sherlock closed the space between them in two long strides. He was nose to nose with John when he said, “And who is going to take care of you?”

“I don’t need anything,” said John.

“You do,” said Sherlock.

“No, Sherlock, I—“ began John.

“You need the battlefield,” said Sherlock. John stared at him. Didn't John just finish telling him that he wanted nothing more than to live a life of calm? John shook his head. Sherlock nodded his and a small grin crept across his face. “You need the battlefield, John Watson. And I can prove it to you.”

John narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Sherlock gave him a beautiful smile. “Gotcha,” said Sherlock.

 

~080~

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade stood at the podium in Scotland Yard and looked out over the reporters. He took a deep breath, praying that this would work, that his small untruths wouldn't be frowned upon. But it was the right thing to do. He knew that in his heart.

“Ladies and Gents,” began Lestrade, “this is going to be brief and I will not be entertaining questions at the end. Our investigation into the death of Professor Michael Stamford has been progressing nicely. We had a suspect in custody, but an alibi was provided for his whereabouts at the time of the murder. He has since been released and has made himself available for further questioning, should we need him. He has been cooperative and helpful and we are grateful for his assistance in furthering our investigation.

“Also, new evidence has come to light regarding the angle and trajectory of the bullet fired at the professor. This evidence was pointed out to us by a certain consulting detective on the case. A person of extensive study in both forensics and ballistics, he is someone that I trust to assist in furthering this investigation as well.

“In fact, at his suggestion, we are currently investigating another suspect. Based on the evidence gathered thus far, we feel this line of investigation to be quite promising and feel that it will result in putting this case to rest.

“As always, the whole of Scotland Yard extends its deepest sympathies to Professor Stamford’s friends and family at this difficult time. We hope that the speedy conclusion of this case will help ease their pain. Thank you.”

Lestrade stepped down from the podium and went back to his desk. He looked at the phone and waited. Sure enough, it rang.

“Hello?” said Lestrade, knowing full well who it was.

“What the hell is a consulting detective? And why was I not told about this?” demanded the chief superintendent.

“Sir,” said Lestrade, already weary of the conversation, “He’s a brilliant man with a brilliant mind and he’s not been wrong with anything he’s told us so far. He came to us out of the blue and I thought I’d be a fool to not take his advice regarding our case. Everything he told us checks out. Including this last bit. We’ll have the killer and wrap this case up a lot quicker, thanks to him.”

“I see,” said the chief, “so why am I paying you?”

“To do the best job I can with the tools available, sir,” said Lestrade.

There was a ‘hurumph’ on the other end of the line. Lestrade waited for a proper response. “Well,” said the chief, “see that everything he tells you checks out. Always back up what he says with actual evidence, legally obtained. Do you understand me? One slip up -- just one -- and you’ll be looking for handouts in Victoria Station.”

“Yessir,” said Lestrade, greatly relieved, “I understand, sir.”

“And another thing,” said the chief superintendent, “what’s this man’s name? The press will be asking me next.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” said Lestrade.

 

~080~

 

John walked into the registrar’s office with his end of term grades in his hand. Donna was at her desk as usual. John never realized that the office was so small and quiet. For such a big university, one would imagine that the registrar’s office would be a bustling hive of activity – especially at term end. But Donna was alone. He had learned from others during his time here that she was perhaps the loneliest woman on campus. 

She was hunched over her computer, clicking away with the mouse and occasionally typing something in. She seemed lost in concentration and was mumbling to herself under her breath.

As John came around the counter, she still hadn't looked up. He could see her computer screen over her shoulder. She was reading about the Stamford murder. John felt a pang of guilt for Mike’s death. He was yet another person he had cared about that had died.

He handed her the paperwork. “My end of term grades,” said John.

“Oh!” Donna jumped out of her skin. She closed the screen she was viewing. 

“Sorry,” said John apologetically.

“It’s alright,” said Donna, “Usually the professors send the grades in secure emails to me. I wasn't expecting anyone in person today. Although, with Mike gone, I expect you had to hand them in yourself.”

“Yes… well,” said John, clearly at a loss.

“It’s alright. I can process them. Just a matter of a bit of data entry. I’m a 60-word-a-minute, girl,” she said, waving her fingers in the air, “Won’t be any trouble.” She smiled at him. He could see a shade of desperation in her eyes and for a moment, John felt sorry for her.

“Good,” he said, “Very glad my last official act on campus won’t be any trouble for you.” He smiled back at her.

She stood up and a bit too close to him. “You’re still leaving?” He could see panic edging around her features.

“Yes,” he said, “I’m afraid so. Between the murder and my alleged involvement with a student—“

“But you’re not actually involved with a—,“ she began and then noticed his grave look back at her. She laughed. “You can’t be serious! He’s just a… well… he’s a… HE. You’re not… actually… gay,” she said, her smile fading rapidly, “Are you?”

He looked at her seriously, pursing his lips, waiting for her to come around to the realization that all her hitting on him would be for naught.

“Jesus,” said Donna. She was visibly shaking and looked like she was going to be sick. John became concerned immediately. He guided her to her seat and squatted down to look up into her face.

“Donna,” he said, “Are you alright? I’m sorry if it’s come as a shock to you. I mean, I know that the implications of getting involved with a student are pretty grave, but for you to take my homosexuality this badly-,”

“You git,” said Donna softly.

“Sorry?” said John.

“You stupid stupid git,” she said again and John realized that she was actually talking to herself. She turned away from him a bit and ranted: “You thought you could handle it. And you didn't even see this. You stupid git.”

“Donna,” said John, “What are you talking about?”

Donna ignored John. It was as if he wasn't even in the room. “He told you to your face. He told you the truth and you chose not to believe him because he’s… well he’s him, isn't he?” John just watched, waited, and hovered near in case he was needed as Donna raved on still shaking, practically on the verge of tears. “You fucking idiot. He’s mean and cruel and he always says the most awful… you should have done him first. Just for that you should have done him first.”

John felt a knot develop in his stomach but said nothing. Donna went on: “You should have got him alone. You should have done something… he’s too nosy… nosy parker. He’s yours. You should have…. He’s yours. You saw him first. Little prick. Coming in and taking what’s yours. Mike tried to destroy him. Tried, but didn't succeed. No he didn't. Daddy raised a good little hunter…a good little hunter. Wished I’d been able to gut his fat hide. He deserved it.”

John became alarmed and said, “Donna, are you saying that you shot Mike Stamford… for me?” She raised her eyes and looked at him as though it were for the first time, as if he had just walked in the room. She smiled sweetly at him with tear-filled eyes. It broke John’s heart and terrified him at the same time.

“Only to keep you,” she looked at him pathetically, “I- I- I didn't want you to go away. Not like Daddy did... And by the time I realized that he was going to get you sacked… I had to do something…p- please…” She gripped his arm tightly and fell to her knees in front of him. He wanted to recoil at her touch, but resisted the temptation. He had to hear this. For Mike.

“What do you want me to say, Donna?” said John. “You killed one of my oldest friends -- and for what? Didn't you know he was trying to get Sherlock kicked off campus? Because that’s what Sherlock told me. Mike came to him and told him to leave school. Then you came along and…” John left the rest unspoken. Donna was crushed. He could see it. She was shaking even more badly now.

“I killed him for you…,” she whimpered softly, as she gripped his uniform and touched his face, “to save you… to keep you here… I wanted… I only wanted… You’re so handsome… I flirt, I know… but I really just… I’m so lonely, John… and you’re so like my father… just like Daddy. Please understand… please don’t go… stay with me… please….”

The door to the registrar’s opened gently. DI Lestrade and three other officers entered the room. Donna’s eyes never left John as they stood her up and placed the handcuffs on her. John got up slowly and watched them take her away. Not a word was spoken and the door closed behind the three officers as they led Donna away to jail.

“She won’t be any trouble, I think,” said Lestrade, patting John on the back and staring at the closed door. “Thanks for doing this. We've got her on tape admitting to the crime.”

“Sherlock said this was what needed to happen,” said John, still staring at the door, “but I still don’t have any idea why she fixated on me. She said something about her father. I reminded her of her father. What the hell was that about?”

“We did a bit of digging before we arranged this,” said Lestrade. “Donna Sinclair, daughter of Richard Sinclair, victim of a hunting accident when his daughter was ten. He wore his camouflage that day, but didn't have on an orange safety jacket when they found him three days after his death. They found Donna covered in his blood, filthy, and practically catatonic in the cab of their truck. She was dehydrated and starving. She was patched up and sent off to a facility for her… mental issues. And when she aged out, she lived quietly. I guess when she saw you in your camouflage that first day, she tried flirting to get you to fancy her – to get you to stick around with her -- and when that didn't work, she progressed to stalking. When it came clear that you were going to be sacked, she took matters into her own hands. Sad state of affairs, really.” Both men stared at the door, each lost in his own thoughts.

“Still,” said Lestrade after a moment, “you can hold your head up high that you helped capture Professor Stamford’s murderer.” He turned to the soldier with a hopeful grin.

John returned it weakly. “Yes,” he said, “there’s that.”

Lestrade’s phone rang. “DI Lestrade…Yes? What? You’re joking…. Alright, alright… bag it all up…. We won’t need it to get a conviction, but it’ll help back us up…. Apple cores and sandwich wrappers? Seriously? Jesus… Alright then…. Thank you, Sergeant Lewis. Right. Bye.”

John raised an eyebrow at Lestrade. “Lewis and Holmes are at Sinclair’s flat. They found a rifle with a scope, recently fired, and a sort of a shrine to her father… and to you, I’m afraid.”

“Apple cores?” said John.

“Don’t ask,” said Lestrade. “Come on. I don’t know about you, but I could use a pint.”

 

~080~

 

John stared at the walls of his bedsit and sighed. It had been four whole months of nothing to do and his skin was crawling. He thought back to that day in the registrar’s office and everything that had followed. He had given his evidence at the trial and was glad to finally be done with the whole thing. Donna was incarcerated and institutionalized for life based on the evidence against her. It was all over.

Sherlock was somewhere in the courthouse that day, but John never ran into him. It was probably a good idea on the whole, not to be seen together. Too many speculations would arise and then where would Lestrade’s conviction wind up, taped confession or no taped confession? No… it was for the best that John kept his distance from Sherlock for the duration of the trial.

Before that, directly after Donna’s arrest, John did get to see Sherlock. But the moment was brief. “My parents want me home,” he had said, “Father’s sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, Sherlock,” John had said. He had wanted to say so much more. He had wanted to tell Sherlock then that it would be alright, that John would still wait for him. He had wanted to tell him one last time…. But Sherlock had never met his eyes. He had looked everywhere but at John. He had seemed twitchy. Something was off. “What is it?” he had asked him.

“Nothing,” Sherlock had said, “You’d better go. You’re still moving, aren't you?”

“Well… yes, but—,“ John had begun.

“Then you should go and go now,” Sherlock had said. “The trial and conviction of this woman will fill the papers for days if not weeks. You’d better duck out now if you hope to escape exposure for your… on-campus… extracurricular activities.” Sherlock stared off over John’s shoulder and added: “I know how much your reputation means to you.”

“Sherlock…” John had said.

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock had said and began to walk away.

“They don’t think you seduced me, you know,” John had said to Sherlock’s retreating figure. Sherlock had stopped. John had said, “From what Lestrade told me, his whole idea of painting you as this consulting detective has had nothing but a positive result for all involved: you escape scrutiny, I escape scrutiny, the Yard gains a valuable resource. It’s all fine, Sherlock. After this all blows over we won’t need to hide.” John had held out his hand. “Come stay with me. When your father’s feeling better and the trial is past us, that is. Come and stay with me.”

He had almost said: I love you. Almost. Why didn't he say it then? It might have changed his mind….

John sighed again and walked to the small desk. He opened the laptop and sat before it. His therapist had suggested that keeping a blog might be useful to help him readjust. As he stared at the blank screen with the blinking cursor taunting him, his eyes unfocused and he thought again of Sherlock… beautiful, frustratingly obnoxious Sherlock Holmes.

Nothing ever happens to me… anymore.

His memory flicked over all the little smiles they had shared in class when everyone else was still working on their tests and Sherlock had finished first (of course) and had nothing better to do than to stare at John from across the room. Occasionally Sherlock would surreptitiously palm his crotch under the table so only John could see. It made for awkwardness later in the class when John had to stand up and address them to give them their homework. John had to stand behind the altar in order to not have anyone see his semi-erect penis, but he was damn sure that Sherlock knew it was there. What a bad boy…

John smiled in spite of himself. He was clearly depressed and missed that idiot something awful, but what could he do? Sherlock was called home. John wondered how Sherlock’s father was doing. He was tempted to text him. He looked at his phone. It was quiet. Everything was quiet. It was maddening. If John called him, would he be interrupting something important in his life? John didn't want to be a bother. And after four months, who’s to say that Sherlock would even be in London? Perhaps he was already installed at another university. Perhaps he was in a uni overseas. Oh God… what if he were out of the country?

A wave of loneliness swept over him. John closed his eyes tightly and remembered all the things that meant Sherlock to him: the smell of tobacco and tea, the feeling of that head full of soft curls sleeping on his chest, his stupid salutes, the deep baritone growl of his voice, the want in his eyes, the touch of his warm skin, the smell of his aftershave and shampoo, his velvet tongue on John’s own, the coolness of the sheets and the softness of the bed…

John let out a sob that echoed off the empty walls.

“Sherlock,” John said to no one.

As if in response, his phone buzzed with a text.

 

~080~

 

Mrs. Hudson was a lovely woman and kindly showed the army officer the stairs that would take him to the address in the text message. It was almost as if she expected to see him. That was decidedly strange. He asked her about the person who lived above and she just laughed and waved telling him that it was really none of her business. But it seemed she couldn't help herself and gave John a playful friendly wink before shutting the door to her own flat.

John counted the seventeen steps and paused at the door. He paused before knocking, not knowing what was beyond. The text had come from an unknown number. John was not familiar with the address. The text contained nothing but the address. Initially, he had ignored it. It was probably a false text. Someone had gotten his number mixed up with someone else’s. It was none of his business.

The same text appeared the next day. It was the same address and from the same number. Again, John ignored it.

After four continuous days of texts, John was here out of pure curiosity.

He stood before the door. There was no noise coming from the other side. Taking a moment to straighten his dress blues and affix his cap tighter over his head, he knocked at the door with a white-gloved hand.

John heard a step and his breath caught when the door flew open and a back-lit Sherlock Holmes faced him for the first time in four months. Once again, John was reminded of the avenging angel and he found that he couldn't speak or move. Sherlock was just too damn beautiful.

“John,” said Sherlock.

John closed his eyes at his name, reveling in the sound of Sherlock’s deep baritone. When his eyes opened, they looked directly into Sherlock’s as he was only inches from his face.

“My captain,” Sherlock breathed reverently. His eyes were wide, absorbing all they could of John’s appearance.

“My soldier,” said John, finally. It was as if John could sense that the world had stopped in that instant. All the rest of humanity vanished and all that existed could be found in the verdigris eyes of the hyper-intelligent, irascible, obnoxious, and completely fuckable Sherlock Holmes. “I missed you… so much, Sherlock.”

“I’m so sorry, John. My father died,” said Sherlock, “There was much to do.”

“I see,” said John. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. You should have told me.”

Something shifted behind Sherlock’s eyes. Ignoring John’s comment, he said, “And… since my local fame evolved from the Stamford case, I've solved a few private cases. Small things, really. One was for the woman downstairs, Mrs. Hudson, whose husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. She sort of owed me a favor after that and I’m getting this flat at a special rate. Nice, isn't it?”

“So…You stopped her husband being executed?” said John, thoroughly impressed.

“Oh no,” said Sherlock with a grin, “I ensured it.” He turned from John and John followed him into the brightly lit flat. Packing boxes were strewn about; Sherlock had evidently just moved in.

“Very nice,” said John, looking around.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “Much better than a depressing bedsit, don’t you think?”

“What?” said John.

“Well… I expect you’ll want to move in straight away,” said Sherlock, “Unless… you've changed your mind about living together.”

“What?” said John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John,” he said, exasperated, “Clearly the months of inactivity you have been experiencing recently have dulled your wits, so I’ll speak slowly: You… move… in… with…me… here. Alright?”

John’s heart melted in an instant. He wanted to…. God… so many things… He wanted to begin by removing his hat and throwing it on that overstuffed chair next to the fireplace. He wanted to, in three strides, invade Sherlock’s space, grab him by the lapels of his coat, and pull him down in a bruising kiss that would have shook both of them to their cores.

But that wasn't what Sherlock would want.

He snapped to full attention and ordered in a gruff voice made deeper with lust: “Lock the door, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock’s breath caught and his eyes glazed over. “Yes, sir, captain,” he said and moved to fulfill the order.

John did a perfect about-face and pointed at a spot on the floor. “Stand here, soldier.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sherlock. He was already flushed with want, his lips pink and full. John couldn't wait to see that mouth wrapped around his dick.

John looked up at him and with mock-anger said: “Do you honestly believe that I am about to take a command from the likes of you, boy?”

“No, captain,” said Sherlock. He was clearly enjoying this, the bulge in his pants making his desire for John more than obvious.

“Then what the hell are you doing telling me what I want and what I don’t want?”

“Sorry, captain. Won’t happen again, captain.”

“You’re damn right it won’t,” said John. He looked around the room and spotted a Union Jack pillow on the sofa. He retrieved it and set it on the floor at Sherlock’s feet. Pointing to it, he said: “On your knees, boy.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s jaw and forced him to look into his eyes. “If you think for one second that I’m going to just let you tell me what to do, you've got another thing coming, you filthy boy.”

Sherlock already looked debauched. This was going to be so worth it.

John unhitched his belt and removed his jacket, draping them over the black leather chair that sat opposite the overstuffed chair next to the fireplace. He toed off his shoes and removed his socks. He undid his trousers and pulled his trousers and pants to his ankles, stepping out of them completely, exposing his raging erection.

Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off of John’s cock. John saw him lick his lips and swallow hard in anticipation. “You want this?” said John, holding his cock toward Sherlock.

“Oh God, yes, captain,” said Sherlock, “Please, sir.”

“You’ll get it when I say,” said John. “Right now, you’re going to be punished for using that tongue of yours in the wrong manner.”

“Spanking, sir?” said Sherlock hopefully.

“No,” said John, “Not this time, you filthy boy.” John slowly removed his shirt and undershirt. He was now completely naked in 221B Baker Street, but he was the one in control of the situation. It felt so fucking… right. “You’re going to use your tongue in the right way.” John turned around to face away from Sherlock and bent over. “Lick my arsehole, you slut. That’s an order. NO hands.” John pulled his arse cheeks apart and exposed himself to Sherlock.

Sherlock swept his tongue over John’s cleft, licking upward toward his hole. Slowly, he swirled his tongue around his opening and John’s breath caught at the sensation of it all. He felt his opening pucker in anticipation of Sherlock’s tongue penetrating him.

It would be the first time that had happened in their history. Typically, John topped. This time, it was all about Sherlock. John couldn't believe how amazing this feeling was. The hot wet of Sherlock’s tongue and the coolness left behind by the drying saliva was almost a sensory overload on skin so sensitive. He wanted more.

“Stick that tongue deep inside me, Mr. Holmes,” said John, “I want to feel you inside me.” Sherlock complied and John pushed back against the pressure of it instinctively. Sherlock removed his tongue from the opening and placed it in again, over and over and over. John sucked in a hissing breath and swore to himself that every now and again, he’d have to sit on Sherlock’s face. This was too fucking good.

Sherlock pulled away from him. “Sorry, sir. Needed air. So fucking good, sir,” gasped Sherlock. John waited for Sherlock to recover. He could feel the man resting his face against his arse, occasionally placing small kisses and nibbling in places on both cheeks before diving in for more.

John held himself wider, “Deeper, you fuck,” said John huskily, his dick was dripping and throbbing. He would need Sherlock to do more soon. He’d never wanted something so badly in his life. Sherlock stuck his tongue in as deep as it would go and wiggled it around. John spat out an oath and pressed toward the sensation. “God damn it, boy. That’s it… tongue-fuck your captain… that’s right, you filthy slut.”

John was going to come all over the rug if he wasn't careful. As it was, there was a pool of precum developing where he stood. Much to his regret, he pulled off of Sherlock’s face and turned to him saying, “Bedroom. Now.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sherlock with a sly grin.

 

~080~

 

John never thought this would happen. Here he was in a beautiful cozy flat with the man he knew he was going to love for the rest of his existence on the planet. If John’s heart could have glowed from joy, he’s pretty sure his would've lit up all of London right now.

Sherlock had led them to a bedroom that was neatly arranged. A double bed with a wide wooden headboard took up most of the space. Perfect. John closed the door behind them and turned to address an expectant Sherlock. Good soldier… always wait on your captain.

“Take off your shirt, Mr. Holmes,” said John, “That’s an order, soldier.”

Sherlock felt his cock twitch at the command. He loved John like this. Even completely naked and erect, he could still be commanding. He silently unbuttoned his shirt, taking his time to savor the moment. Inch by inch, smooth white perfection was revealed to John’s eyes and he did his level best to keep his face neutral. It wasn't easy. Those piercing verdigris eyes of that man were caressing his body inch by inch, lingering here over his scar, and there over his chest, and there again to his groin which was aching with need.

“Fold it neatly and place it on the table behind you,” said John. His voice almost cracked when he spoke. He jutted out his chin in a subconscious effort to regain control.

Sherlock placed the shirt on the table and awaited his next orders, chest out, shoulders back, chin out, eyes staring along the horizon in the distance. John walked to him and circled around him. “So far, so good,” he said, slapping Sherlock playfully on the arse as he walked by. Sherlock grinned.

“Wipe that smile off your face, boy,” said John. Sherlock’s face went slack. John looked right up into Sherlock’s face watching for another twitch. None came. Experimentally, John pinched one of Sherlock’s nipples. He flinched, but his expression didn't change.

“Good… excellent discipline,” said John. John swept up some of his own precum on two fingers and held it in front of Sherlock’s face so he could see. He then wiped it on the nipple he just pinched and sucked it off again, his mouth lingering to flick and suck on the nipple. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed and his breath stuttered.

“Don’t you flinch, you fuck,” said John. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, but he was shaking with desire.

“Please, captain,” he whispered pathetically.

“What was that?” said John.

“Please,” said Sherlock, “sir…”

“Are you begging me,” said John, “Are you seriously begging me for something? A good soldier never begs for anything. Not ever. So I ask again: are you begging me for something, boy?”

“No, sir,” began Sherlock, “It’s just that… well…”

“You ARE begging!” said John, “I knew it! Damn you, soldier. You will have to be made an example of.” John went to the bed and got a pillow. He placed it on the floor and had Sherlock remove his shoes, socks, trousers, and pants. “Before we begin, I’ll have you know that this is a punishment. You will not be allowed to speak a word. Utter a syllable, a moan, a groan, and I will have to administer… a more severe punishment. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Sherlock, expecting to have to suck John’s cock until he exploded. Somehow all these ‘punishments’ were never that awful to tolerate. Sherlock wanted to giggle at this errant thought, but decided that he wanted to see where John was leading him more than he wanted to interrupt him with insubordination.

“What’s your safety word, Mr. Holmes?”

“Copper,” said Sherlock.

“Good,” said John. “You say ‘copper’ and it all stops. Understood?”

“Yessir.”

“Excellent,” said John. “No talking. No noise whatsoever.” John dropped to his knees on the pillow and took Sherlock in his mouth as deeply as he could.

Sherlock sucked in a breath and almost cried out in surprise. John… Oh my God, John… you wonderful man… God damn you… shit…. Sherlock’s breath was stuttered and uneven as John continued to suck him off, looking up at him with those deep blue eyes, waiting for Sherlock to screw up. John wanted to get Sherlock to say something, anything. He wanted a gurgle, a moan, a sharp gasp that made noise. He had such plans.

John worked his tongue around the frenulum and over Sherlock’s slit the way John knew he liked. It took Sherlock’s breath away, but he never uttered a sound. John cupped Sherlock’s balls and squeezed them gently, knowing how tender and sensitive they were. Still, the newly crowned consulting detective made no noise. Only his ragged breathing could be heard, and that didn't count.

Sherlock didn't dare look down into John’s eyes. He knew that would be the kiss of death. He couldn't resist the sight of John’s blonde head bobbing over his hardened manhood, his mouth full of Sherlock, just waiting for his seed. John let out a moan of pleasure and Sherlock almost echoed the sentiment. Almost. If this was going to be a game of wills, he was going to win.

But did he really want to win? Sherlock found himself curious as to what a ‘more severe punishment’ was going to be. But that curiosity was tempered with the thought that John was going to have to pull the noise from his throat in order to administer it.

John could see the stubborn set of Sherlock’s chin. He knew what that meant. Time for plan B.

John pulled off Sherlock’s cock with an obscene wet noise. He stroked his saliva-coated cock as John stuck two fingers in his mouth and coated them with his saliva. Sherlock watched this with fascination. John was upping the ante. Sherlock cocked a grin at the captain and spread his legs a bit wider. Bring it on, soldier-boy.

John grinned up at Sherlock when his feet moved apart. He shook his head and placed a finger at his hole, his mouth wrapping around his dick once again. You will cry out for me, boy… you will…

Slowly, John circled Sherlock’s opening. Sherlock circled his hips and lowered himself in anticipation. Jesus, he was hot for it. John pressed slowly into Sherlock and heard him suck in another breath, slowly blowing it out as John’s finger sunk to the second knuckle.

Pumping his fist over Sherlock’s cock, working the head with his lips and tongue, John sunk a second finger in. Sherlock took louder breaths, pressing his lips together in an effort to avoid temptation. John worked his fingers a bit deeper, finding and teasing Sherlock’s prostate, gripping his dick slightly tighter, and humming over Sherlock’s prick simultaneously.

Sherlock couldn't help himself. He keened a moan out, the sound reverberating off the walls of the room. After all that silence, the moan was made to sound even more lascivious than it would have been had Sherlock been allowed to make noise the whole time.

Immediately, John pulled off and slowly took his fingers out of Sherlock. He stood up and watched the detective as he came apart from the sudden lack of contact. John smiled at the control he was just given. “Gotcha,” he said.

 

~080~

 

Sherlock was naked and spread-eagled on the bed, his hands bound with their two belts to the bed. John knelt between his knees and was rubbing his thighs soothingly. “Now,” began John, “Punishment begins again. What’s your safety word?”

“Copper, captain,” said Sherlock.

“Good boy,” said John. He raised up Sherlock’s knees and kissed the inside of his thighs at random, slowly working his way down toward Sherlock’s hardened cock. John could practically see it twitch with every beat of Sherlock’s heart. Poor neglected thing. John reached over to the small bowl he had gotten from the kitchen after he tied Sherlock to the bed.

He retrieved a single ice cube.

He held it up to show Sherlock. The detective’s eyes widened and carefully tracked the path of the cube as John placed it on the inside of his left knee. Sherlock flinched at the touch. John smacked him hard on the outside of his left thigh near his buttock, immediately afterward rubbing the area soothingly. Sherlock’s breathing was heavy.

“No moving, Sherlock,” said John, “Very bad discipline. You want to be good for your captain, don’t you?”

“Yes, captain,” said Sherlock, “My captain… only you… only for you, sir.” Sherlock was half mad with desire. Why couldn't he come yet? He was aching to come. Jesus wept!

“In this,” continued John, “you may speak, but do not move.”

John torturously dragged the barest touch of the ice cube down Sherlock’s thigh in a random wavy pattern. John noticed with no little pleasure the gooseflesh that arose on Sherlock’s impossibly alabaster skin and the delicious quiver in Sherlock’s whole body as the ice cube came closer and closer to what Sherlock suspected was its goal.

“Captain?” said Sherlock, his voice cracking.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes?” said John concentrating on the ice and not bothering to look at Sherlock.

“Permission to provide you better access, sir?” asked Sherlock.

“I don’t know what you mean, soldier,” said John, raising his eyes to Sherlock’s. “This is my show. You have no place calling any of the shots, do you understand me, you filthy whore?”

“Yes, sir,” said Sherlock. “Sorry, sir.”

The ice caressed the crease where Sherlock’s buttock met his thigh. John then dragged the cube up and around that crease. He pushed Sherlock’s thighs down to the bed. The cube barely brushed Sherlock’s left testicle as it passed upward and around the crease of the thigh.

“See?” said John, “I told you that I was in charge here. Believe me now?”

“Yes, sir,” said Sherlock, unable to control his abdominal muscles as the cube passed over them, just above his dark curls and just below his dripping cock. There was the barest of touches to the tip of his cock as the ice passed under it and Sherlock let out a cry of aching lust at the contact. He almost bucked off the bed – but he didn't. John had never been more proud. Such control! Wonderful.

John guided the cube up Sherlock’s right side, along his ribs and danced it around his nipple, causing the flesh there to harden.

“Look at you,” said John reverently. “You are so fucking gorgeous, Sherlock. And what an obedient soldier. Good man.” John leaned down and kissed the tip of Sherlock’s dripping prick. To Sherlock’s credit, he didn't jump at the touch, even though every fiber of his being was telling him to. John smiled knowingly. “A very good man.”

John crawled higher up on Sherlock and ran the cube over Sherlock’s lips, watching as that wanton mouth became wet and shiny. “You want to lick your mouth? You want to lick the ice cube?” asked John, utterly fascinated by the look of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Yes, sir,” said Sherlock.

“Go on then,” said John, “permission granted.”

Sherlock’s pink tongue tentatively licked out at the ice cube just as John pulled it slightly away. Sherlock’s tongue chased it and caught a drip of water as it fell from the cube. John almost came from the sight. He could feel Sherlock’s hot breath on his fingers as he continued to hold the cube just out of his tongue’s reach. Sherlock didn't dare lift his head from the pillow. He didn't know how much movement his orders would allow and he didn't want to push the issue.

By now, the ice cube was about half its original size. John took pity on Sherlock and allowed him to suck on the ice, rubbing it all over his lips and tongue. Sherlock, in his exuberance, sucked on John’s fingers once he managed to take the cube into his mouth. John gasped at the touch, his cock waking up and coming to full attention once again. He was really going to have to do something about this boy.

John leaned down over Sherlock’s groin once again. “ You've been very good, Mr. Holmes,” murmured John into Sherlock’s right hip. He gave the flesh there a quick nibble and pulled his head up to look at Sherlock. “I think it’s time we rewarded that behavior.”

John got up off the bed and released Sherlock’s hands. The belt straps left red marks, but after a quick observation, the army doctor deemed them safe enough. No permanent damage would result. John got some lube and a condom from a drawer Sherlock directed him to and came back to bed. “I have a surprise for you, Mr. Holmes,” said John as he lay next to Sherlock. Sherlock looked over at him but said nothing. He just watched John carefully as he stroked himself. “You have permission to touch yourself, Holmes, but do not come yet. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Sherlock. Relief flooded his system as his hand moved lightly over his aching need. John placed some lube in Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock sighed with pleasure at the smooth contact. “Thank you, captain.”

“I've told you before,” said John, “a good captain always takes care of his soldier.” As John stroked himself languidly, he brushed Sherlock’s sweaty curls off his forehead with his free hand, watching as the beautiful man closed his eyes, enjoying the soothing caress.

“Do you want to know what your surprise is?” asked John as he continued to stroke himself and Sherlock’s curls.

“Of course, captain,” said Sherlock, not opening his eyes.

“I’ll give you a hint,” said John, “Make sure your cock is well lubed up.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. He turned his head and stared at John. “Seriously?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” said John as he held up the condom to Sherlock. Sherlock put it on as John said: “It’s the gift I want to give you for all you've done for me. I thought for a while that you’d forgotten me—“

“How could I?”

“—But I see now that I was wrong. I’m sorry I doubted you, Sherlock. I’m sorry and I want to give myself to you… to thank you.”

“That’s not necessary, John,” said Sherlock.

“Shhh…” said John, “that’s an order, soldier. Now, open me up. You know what to do.” John raised his knees to his chest and watched Sherlock.

Sherlock searched John’s face for a moment and slowly rolled on his side to face him. He took the bottle of lube and carefully spread more lube on his dominant hand. The cool contact of the lubricant caused John to jump a bit, but he just kept eye contact with Sherlock as the slender fingers of the detective slowly circled his hole.

As Sherlock worked John’s opening, they shared soft languid kisses that seemed to go on forever. They were tender and relaxing and John felt himself give under the pressure of one of Sherlock’s fingers probing inside him. Oh… my… God… so fucking good…. Jesus…

“Mmmmmnnnnghhh….” John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth. “Oh that’s it, Sherlock… don’t stop… yes… oh God… the pressure of it… so fucking deep… Shit…Ah…”

Sherlock went in as far as his first finger would allow, pulling it out slowly and reinserting it in a slow, comfortable rhythm designed to loosen John, not get him off. Soon, they both felt him ready for a second finger and Sherlock inserted two fingers much slower than the first. John hissed a breath at the pressure of this, wanting it, but not wanting it. It was all very new to him. He’d always been a top. This was so foreign… and yet… it was for Sherlock. He wanted to be here in this moment for Sherlock.

“Only you… Sherlock… my soldier… my everything,” murmured John.

“I love you, John Watson,” said Sherlock as he looked into John’s deep blue eyes and kissed him, his tongue echoing the rhythm his fingers were keeping. John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth to show his pleasure and approval.

“Relax, now, John,” said Sherlock. He attempted to insert three fingers into him, pushing so slowly as to almost be imperceptible. John took Sherlock in with very little trouble, feeling himself tight around his fingers. Sherlock turned his wrist and gently nudged John’s prostate.

John came unhinged.

“Oh FUCK!” he cried. “Jesus, Sherlock… oh God! More… more… I’m begging you… please!”

“Shhh…” said Sherlock. "A good soldier never begs, captain." Sherlock grinned teasingly at John as he repositioned himself on his knees and bumped gently up against the little hardness inside John over and over. He watched with fascination as his captain slowly lost his mind. John’s back arched and Sherlock thought he had never seen anything more beautiful. “This is all mine, John Watson, this feeling coursing through you. It means you belong to me. You are my captain. No one else’s. And only I can do this to you.”

Sherlock thrust his fingers in and out of John’s loosening hole and watched him come undone.

“I want to enter you, captain,” said Sherlock, his cock aching for contact once more. “Please. Order me. Give your soldier the order to take you, to claim you. Please. Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

“God yes, soldier,” said John, his words stuttered and broken. “You have my permission to fuck the hell out of me. Do it. I order you to fucking mount me and fuck me like the slut you are. You know you want it, damn it. Take it! Take me! Fucking claim me! Do it! Now!”

Sherlock removed his fingers and placed more lube on his cock. He lined himself up and… pushed.

“Ahhhh…” cried John, “Ohhhh… God… Sherlock… Only you… yes… fucking hell… God yes… That’s it. Claim me. Mark me as yours forever… come on… God damn it… deep inside. Shit… yes… yes… yes…. ahhhhhh!”

When Sherlock was balls-deep, he paused, waiting for John to adjust. John’s knees were on Sherlock’s shoulders and the detective hovered his mouth over John’s, their breath mingling. “Alright, captain?” asked Sherlock.

John’s breathing was labored, but he looked into Sherlock’s eyes and smiled. “Jesus, Sherlock,” said John, “This feels so fucking amazing… oh shit. So fucking good… Thank you, my love. Thank you for everything.”

“You’re welcome, my captain,” said Sherlock. He looked down at John’s cock between them and then back up at John. “I need to move now, captain. Do I have permission?”

“Soldier,” said John, “Here are your orders: Pound me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sherlock.

Sherlock withdrew his cock until just the tip remained inside. He thrust back in smoothly and back out again, trying slightly different angles to find John’s prostate again.

Sherlock knew he had done it when John’s back arched again. A cry came from the captain that Sherlock knew he would never tire of hearing. He increased his rhythm and soon they were both lost to the sensation of Sherlock being inside of John: the slap of their skin, the panted breath, the caressing hands travelling everywhere as both men rode each other to their mutual climax.

John felt his balls tighten as he stroked himself and watched Sherlock become more and more debauched as the detective penetrated his heat and kept striking his prostate over and over. It was getting to be too much to bear. Finally John knew he was close, but he wanted Sherlock to come as well. He watched the man above him fucking him and said: “You are so fucking beautiful, Sherlock Holmes,” said John. “And you’re all mine… all mine… come for me, my soldier. Come deep inside me… come on… Damn it, you fucking whore, that’s an order!” And as soon as the words left his lips, John exploded: “Ahhhhh! FUCK… Sherlock! Oh God… my Sherlock… Son of a… Ahhh! Sherlock! Sherlock Sherlock…. Oh…God… Sherlock!” Ropes of cum covered John's belly and chest as he pumped his fist. It was more cum than John had ever seen.

Sherlock watched John come and followed a moment after, the captain’s words acting like a Pavlov trigger. “FUCK!” shouted Sherlock as he felt himself give several incredibly deep thrusts inside his captain, a flood of cum streaming from his cock. “Yes, captain… my captain… mine mine mine mine… Oh John… John John John Johnjohnjohnjohn…. Ohhhhh…”

Sherlock was the picture of a tortured saint as he came inside of John. Alabaster skin arched backward as he was back-lit by the afternoon light streaming in the window, black curls were flung back, red lips pink and parted, eyes tight shut; he was an absolute fucking vision. John could get used to seeing that. So fucking gorgeous.

Sherlock pulled out of John gently and disposed of the condom. He got a flannel from the bathroom and they cleaned up, if only rudimentarily, and lay in each other’s arms, enjoying the touch of their skin and the tingle of the afterglow.

Once the English language had no longer eluded them, John said: “So… the great Sherlock Holmes loves me.”

“I do, John Watson,” murmured Sherlock. He kissed him on the breast bone and looked at him, his cheek resting on John’s chest.

“By the way…” said John, “There’s the story I want to tell our grandkids when they ask when Grandfather first told Gramps that he loved him: ‘Well kids… your grandfather had two fingers up my arse at the time… it was just pure magic.’”

Sherlock and John chuckled and then laughed. “Alright,” said Sherlock, “Admittedly, not the best timing. But I want points for telling you at all.”

John kissed Sherlock sweetly on the mouth. “That you get, love,” he said.

“And since when are we having grandchildren?” said Sherlock.

“We could,” said John, “someday.”

“Dreamer,” said Sherlock.

“Always,” said John and he leaned over for another kiss.


End file.
